Beginnings
by Komanah24
Summary: He is enormous, powerful, and unstoppable. Nothing is going to get in his way. Not Optimus, not Sentinel, nor Ultra Magnus. He will win this war, he will make a daring move that will shock everyone. One that will have Sentinel on his knee-plates begging for mercy, and will make Optimus wonder how he ever missed this. Yes, Megatron has his plan, and it is a merciless one. T (energon
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Transformers, or any of the TF characters you recognize from other movies or television series. Blah.**

_Okay! Now that that depressing disclaimer is done you can read my ranting for a while. Fun! __First off I just want everyone to know that my summery may change at any time... if it doesn't seem to be attracting readers it will be changed into something that I think may capture more interests. __Also, none of the Cybertronian swear words does in any way resemble the same definition as our human cursing. (Scrap=useless metal, slag=waste metal, glitch=a processor dysfunction or something, pit= smelting pit, frag= not sure but I know it's not the F-bomb) _

_There are a lot of OCs in this story, (Sonic-blaster, Quick-plot, Firefly, etc.) if it happens to be the name of an actual transformer then oops. My bad. Anywee. The Cybertronian time and stuff I have painstakingly written the description beside in italics so that you don't get lost or something. Okay, I'll stop now. Read and review! :D_

**Chapter One.**

Optimus Prime vents in frustration as he glances over the bright city of Iacon shining through the darkness. It is a city that never truly sleeps. Its gates are protected by ever vigilant mechs that would safeguard their homes to the point of their sparks being extinguished. But even with that comforting fact comes the realization that the guards could only warn them of an impending attack moments before it happened.

The Prime bites back another vent. The enemy's movements were becoming increasingly erratic. Megatron's last five attacks had been upon cities that the tacticians at Iacon hadn't even factored in. Megatron himself was becoming more and more unpredictable, if not a little insane. That alone was cause enough for the young Prime to be sleepless on this lunar cycle.

What had happened to his elder brother? Megatron used to be such a thoughtful mech that seemed destined to become a prime himself. He had been a gracious sibling to his younger brothers Ultra Magnus, Optimus (then Orion Pax), and the sparkling of the family, Hot Rod. What had changed the large silver mech so drastically? What drove him to turn power hungry and raise a terrible army to win him the whole of Cybertron? What possessed him to offline the hundreds upon hundreds of mechs, femmes and innocent sparklings alike? Was it his time in the gladiator pits of Kaon? Was it something that Optimus himself had done?

How the Prime wishes that he could have his oldest brother back. But is there any coming back from the places Megatron has gone? Is there any hope that he will return? Optimus clears his processer of the conflicting emotions that harassed him so suddenly. Now is not the time for confusion and brotherly sentiments toward the enemy. Not when all of Cybertron is counting on him, Optimus Prime, to protect the freedom they still had.

For this reason Optimus is uneasy. His mech creator, Sentinel Prime is away, off defending some innocent city from the clutches of his corrupted brother, no doubt. His absence leaves the younger Prime in charge while he is gone. Megatron probably knows this. He will try something yet, and Optimus can only hope he can stop his brother from whatever that may be.

"Prime?" The urgent voice breaks through his processing, the young Prime turns from the city's vibrant lights to Sentinel's Second in Command Sonic-blaster, "Prime, are you here?"

"On the balcony," Optimus calls, curious as to what is so important that the older mech sought him out in his private chambers. The mech saunters out to him with purposeful strides, his green highlights on his servos and pedes flashing against his ebony frame. Sonic-blaster nods politely to his superior before he dives into the impending problem.

"Prime, sir, the scout you commanded me to dispatch has returned with rather disturbing finds, ones that I believe should warrant our attentions immediately," the mech says his helm dipped respectfully toward the floor showing his green armor there.

"Is the scout present?" Optimus questions suddenly worried and struggling to not let it show through his faceplates. The Second in Command nods and turns to motion to someone still standing at the entrance of the young Prime's private sleeping quarters to come forward. As the scout approaches the two rather awkwardly Optimus has to think that this situation must be very grave. Sonic-blaster wouldn't just come bursting into his quarters unannounced and with a tagalong if it wasn't.

"Tell Optimus Prime of your findings," Sonic-blaster instructs the camouflage colored scout. The young mech nods, clearly uncomfortable with being in another bot's private chambers, especially a Prime's, before turning to Optimus and relaying his discoveries.

"I came across the Decepticon forces between here and the city of Metropolis. I did not see Megatron himself, but a vast number of troops are there and seem to be preparing for an attack. They are being led by the Decepticon S.I.C., Starscream," the scout stops and allows this bit of information to register into the Prime's processer.

"Do you know whom they intend to attack?" the Prime inquires calmly.

"Negative," the scout hesitates as if he wants to say more but is reluctant to do so in front of Optimus. _This hesitancy won't do_, Optimus tells himself as he watches the young scout fidget.

"How many Decepticons do you estimate?" Prime asks then deciding to let the inkling slide.

"Scores of them, sir, at least four hundred."

Prime feels himself sink on his struts at the offhanded guess. Scouts where trained that it is better to overestimate than to under-mind the enemy, this young mech is no exception. He probably guessed maybe a few tens higher than what there actually is, but that is still a big figure. Where does Megatron find all of these sadistic mechs to serve him? Sentinel and Optimus are constantly scrounging for more recruits for the Autobot faction.

"Sonic-blaster, escort the scout to the Head Tactician Quick-plot. Relay all that you have told me and have him analyze the data, I will be by in three breems(_1 breem=8.3 earth min.)_ to see the results," Optimus tells the S.I.C with a commanding tone that prompts Sonic-blaster to listen promptly. He and the scout leave for the Tactical Office, leaving the Prime with his whirling processer.

Megatron. Optimus' spark wrenches just thinking of the name. The red and blue mech turns once more to look over the city of Iacon. Soon his brother's vast army may be plaguing the streets, killing everyone in sight. Images of previously fought battles find their way to the front of his processer, to think that it could happen in Iacon… Optimus shuts off the horrible files before he is sucked into their bloody abyss. He will not allow Megatron to do that. Optimus will be off-lined and joined with the All-Spark before he lets Megatron bring his hordes of killing mechs into Iacon.

Optimus whirls and strides toward the door that leads out of his quarters. He is heading to the Tactical Division; he doesn't care if he is going to be a whole two breems (_1 breem=8.3 earth min.)_ earlier than what he had originally planned. He walks regally through the halls and makes his way into the tacticians' office and catches the last part of the young scout's relayed message as he enters. It is spoken exactly as it had been to him. The Prime smiles briefly from his place by the door at the camouflage scout's brief, but detailed report for the second time, this scout is good. He has to admit he is impressed with the young mech's ability to display what he meant using only the necessary words.

Quick-plot, the head tactician at the Iacon base, hums thoughtfully and the young Prime can see the wheels start to turn in his processer. The black and grey tactician touches a digit to his mouthplates and furrows his optic ridge. It was always fascinating to see the tactical bots work.

"Metropolis," the word is spoken with an unemotional tone and Optimus looks to its owner. It is a young, black and white, Praxian doorwinger, the Prime notes, and a student at that.

Quick-plot gives the mech a frown before reprimanding him sharply, "One does not give an opinion before his teacher. One waits for the teacher's conclusion and then asks permission to input." The young Praxian dips his helm in acknowledgement of his wrong.

Optimus finds the doorwinger's fast answer intriguing and steps from his place by the door, making his presence known. The Praxian sees him immediately and lowers his gaze in embarrassment that the Prime saw his wrongdoing. Quick-plot cranes his helm to see what has his apprentice so ashamed and finds their tall leader standing at his shoulder. The tactician makes a surprise grunt before greeting the Prime formally.

"I was under the impression that you wouldn't be here for another two breems (_1 breem=8.3 earth min._)," the older tactician says in a polite manner.

Prime nods, "I came early, I hope I am not disrupting the proceedings."

"No," the mech says quickly before turning his attention back to the data he had been given by the scout. Optimus glances curiously at the Praxian that is standing, once again, as impassive as a statue.

"Might I ask what your conclusion was, tactician?" the Prime asks the stoic mech. The doorwings jerk slightly in surprise that is quickly masked. The Praxian glances at his teacher before speaking in a clipped professional tone that went far deeper than training. Optimus has a feeling this is the doorwinger's normal way of speaking.

"I was merely going by the information given to us by the scout and cross referencing it with the previous battles that we were defeated in, then the battles that we won. It seemed to me at first that the enemy's actions were beginning to make no sense at all, so I widened my references to all the battles in the past three deca cycles _(1 deca cycle = 1 earth month)_. It would appear that Megatron is attempting to confuse us strategically by doing things that we would consider illogical.

"So by basing my analysis on that alone I was able to come up with the conclusion that the Decepticons will indeed follow what we would conclude is the most illogical course of action," the young Praxian pauses briefly to glance once again at his teacher, who does not look pleased, before hammering ahead to get everything out before he is stopped. "Since Metropolis is closer I would usually deduce that it would be more of an appealing target. But it is also heavily fortified. It is led by a femme Commander and is safeguarded by her army. It has plenty of supplies to make it tempting if this is strictly a raid. Iacon is further away than Metropolis is and is even more guarded; it has a slightly larger army number therefore more supplies.

"I factored in the probability that Megatron would be drawn here to kill you, as the mech has displayed a fanatic drive to offline you in the past. And then I concluded that since the most illogical choice would be for them to attack Iacon that they would probably go for Metropolis."

Optimus Prime's processer feels like it is glitching. What?!

The Praxian doorwinger sees the Prime's confusion and explains carefully, "If Megatron where leading the troops they would most likely attack Iacon, but he is not. Starscream is in command of them, so with that added variable we can rule out the possibility that the Decepticons will do anything… abnormal."

"So you have concluded that Megatron has been acting peculiar with the sole purpose of confusing us?" Optimus takes a guess at what the young black and white mech means, and much to the Prime's relief the Praxian just nods.

"With all due respect," Quick-plot interjects Optimus' pondering with a raised finger, "Prowl is only a student yet! He has much to learn, and as such his flawed observations shouldn't be taken into account over that of a more seasoned tactician… such as myself."

Optimus fights the urge to raise an unbelieving optic ridge at the mech speaking. Quick-plot is suddenly rather discourteous toward his apprentice, and the young Prime isn't sure he likes the transformation in his older friend. This rudeness appears to have been going on for a while given that the undergraduate known as Prowl seems to be immune to its offensive nature. None the less, Optimus feels that it should be addressed before the older tactician completely ruins Prowl's confidence. Not to mention disregards any good tactical advice from the sharp witted student.

"Quick-plot, all advice that seems logical will be considered, regardless if it is from a veteran tactician or an apprentice," the Prime tells the older mech before turning back to Prowl. "Are you absolutely certain that the Decepticons will attack Metropolis?"

Prowl nods, "As strange as it may seem, Starscream is, at the moment, the more rational of the two of them. He will go for the city that he deems will be the easiest to conquer; also he has a personal vendetta against the femme Commander of Metropolis."

"A vendetta?"

"It is my understanding that she called him a 'fragging fembot with heelstruts'. Apparently he didn't take too kindly to it," Prowl supplies somewhat stiffly with slight emphasis on the relayed words of the femme Commander. Optimus nods his helm slowly as he realizes that this young tactician is more than likely correct on his theory.

"Are you sure that this will be their course of action?" Optimus asks ignoring Quick-plot's huff of disbelief that his apprentice is being heeded over him.

"94.525% sure, Prime," comes the formal reply.

Sonic-blaster raises his optic ridge at the answer and glances at Optimus Prime to see his reaction to the mech's precise statistics. The Prime merely looks thoughtful. He gazes at Sonic-blaster after a moment with somewhat troubled optics. What should he do? If Prowl is right then Metropolis would be attacked by a savage army composed of grounders and seekers alike. It will be a massacre; the ground based army of Metropolis won't stand a chance. They will need auxiliary. But if he listens to the counsel of the young mech, Prowl, and went to aid Metropolis and the tactician turns out to be wrong. Optimus barely contains a shudder as his processer turns toward what will happen to Iacon if he dispatches an army and the seeker Commander attacks the city Prowl ruled out.

"Sonic-blaster," Optimus begins his voice commanding as he makes his decision, "ready the troops. We will go aid the city of Metropolis." Iacon stands a far better chance without his main force protecting it than Metropolis does.

Sonic-blaster nods with a grim expression on his faceplates and hurries out of the Tactical Office, his green highlights flashing brightly in his urgency. Optimus watches him go before turning back to his audience. Prowl looks somewhat alarmed, the Prime notes before turning to the camouflage scout, who is standing there with a bum-puzzled look on his faceplates, and addressing him.

"What is you designation, scout?"

"Designation: Hound, sir," the scout replies with a slight nod of his helm.

"You will lead us to the point at which you last sighted the Decepticons," Hound's optics widen at Optimus' words as the Prime continues speaking, "I will require you to accompany us, Prowl, for we may need a tactician on the battlefield. Quick-plot, you will remain here at the Iacon base in case—"

"In case the apprentice is wrong?" the older tactician inquires with a slight jab at Prowl, and Optimus detects a hint of bitterness in Quick-plot's tone. Quick-plot gives him a grim smile before nodding, "No Con will step a pede in the city without being blasted to the Pit and back."

Optimus returns the small smile before sauntering out, Hound and Prowl behind him. He needs to gather the troops as quickly as possible. For all they know the Decepticons are already besieging the city of Metropolis, killing everyone. Prime grits his denta as he pictures the seekers flying over the city. They would make short work of the ground based army.

Optimus stops in the hallway and addresses the two young Cybertronians behind him, "Go prepare yourselves, we will be leaving in a half joor _(1 joor=6.5 earth hours)_." The two obey immediately and hurry in their different directions. Optimus watches them go before whirling on his pedes and making his way to the training hanger. He is going to need the best if he is planning to go charging into a battle full of seekers. As Optimus enters the base's training hanger he can hear the sound of struggling bots. The gruff voice of the mech he is looking for reaches his audios.

"That's it Springer, stay low! He's trying to draw you out, stay reserved! Remember this is servo-to-servo combat, not servo-to-helm!" A loud clang sounds from the tussling younglings in the middle of the hanger. A startled yelp rings out and the youngling Springer falls on his skidplates. "What did I tell you?" the large black mech coaching the two young Autobots asks Springer.

"Stay low. Alright, got it!" Springer leaps up and gets into fighting stance again only to be promptly shoved down by a less than lenient servo. The youngling growls and surges back up and the same servo grabs his faceplate and pushes him back down. "Ironhide!" He yells loudly, "Hot Rod isn't letting me get up!"

"I wouldn't let a Con get up!" the other mechling in question defends himself ardently.

"I'm not a Con, you scrap licker!"

"Take it back, lubricant drinker!"

Ironhide rolls his optics in annoyance and leaves the two to hash it out as he spots Optimus. He looks positively relieved as he leaves the younglings. As the bulky mech nears he nods a greeting to Prime.

"Optimus?" His word greeting comes out as more of a question and the young Prime can tell that the older mech is a little worried. He has every right to be. Optimus never comes into the training hanger to interrupt his schooling of the younglings in combat. To tell the truth it never felt right to Optimus to barge in on his old teacher and expect him to drop everything and listen.

"You like regurgitated energon!"

"Yeah? Well you mix yours with used oil!"

Prime wonders inwardly if he should stop his youngest brother, Hot Rod, from acting so immaturely. In the end he decides against it, if Ironhide didn't stop it yet he probably has a reason.

"Ironhide," Prime greets in return trying to ignore the yelling mechlings behind the black mech. He clears his vocal processer in discomfort before continuing, "There has been a development regarding the Decepticon army and one of the tacticians deduced that they are planning to attack Metropolis. I will require you at the ground bridge in a half joor _(1 joor=6.5 earth hrs)_." He bits back the word 'please' before it can form on his lip plates. This still feels so unnatural ordering his old mentor around like he is just another warrior in the ranks. But Ironhide had made it clear the day Optimus was made Prime that he was to stop treating the older mech like he is still in charge.

Ironhide just grunts slightly at the command to indicate that he is pleased before nodding his helm that he has heard, "I will be there," he mutters gruffly. Optimus merely tips his helm in appreciation before turning to exit the training hanger. As he does he has to suppress a smile at the insults still flying from the younglings.

"Your helm looks like a pede!"

"Yours looks like a skidplate!"

Ironhide's voice cuts loudly into their arguing, "Alright you two!" Optimus is slightly surprised that he refrained from cursing. "Harness that aggression and use it when you're fighting! A lot of good throwing sparkling's insults at the Cons will do! Come on; get on your pedes, you slaggers!" Optimus barely restrains a chuckle at the curse word thrown in at the last moment. Some bots don't ever change. The Prime is walking for the exit when the excited young voice of his brother stops him.

"Optimus!"

The red and blue mech turns to see his younger sibling ask Ironhide for a second to talk to Optimus. Much to Prime's surprise the grumpy, black mech gives Hot Rod permission. Hot Rod snatches at the chance and runs after his brother.

"Where are you going?" Hot Rod is asking questions before he is even fully stopped in front of Optimus Prime. "What do you need Ironhide for? Are you leaving? Is it Megatron?"

Optimus restrains a chuckle at the youngling's hyper actions, "Yes, I am leaving, I am take—"

"Where are you going?" Optimus gives the youngling an unenthusiastic look at the interruption. Hot Rod realizes his error immediately, "Sorry," he mumbles. He doesn't sound sorry in the least.

"As I was saying, I am taking the troops to Metropolis, one of the tacticians concluded that is the city that the Decepticons will attack. They will need aid because the enemy army is composed of grounders and seekers," Optimus suddenly becomes wary of the growing excitement in the youngling's blue optics.

"Can I come? Please, Optimus, pleeeeeeease?! I can handle anything the Decepticons dish out! You know I can," Hot Rod's words are rising in pitch as he sees he is about to be stopped. "Ironhide said I'm the best fighter he's ever trained!" Optimus raises his optic ridge at Ironhide who shakes his head, disclaiming that statement. Springer is standing back looking positively offended at the possibility that his teacher might have said that.

"Hot Rod," Optimus begins bending slightly to be at optic level with his youngest brother.

"Oh, great," Hot Rod mutters.

"As much as you think you're ready for this, you are not. You still require training to refine your abilities, which I must admit, are many. Someday you will be a great warrior and, doubtlessly, leading your own troops into a battle like this. But until then you must stay here in Iacon where it is safe," Optimus wonders right then just how safe Iacon actually is at the moment. "As your older brother it is my duty to protect you and to look out for you, and I would not be doing that if I allowed you into battle prematurely. Understand?"

"Yes," Hot Rod huffs out, "You didn't have to make a speech out of it."

Optimus rubs his servo on the youngling's helm with a smile, "Good, now get back to your training. Ironhide has about a half joor_(1 joor=6.5 earth hrs)_ to complete this lesson."

Hot Rod pulls his helm from his brother's servo and walks back to his teacher with a sour expression. It quickly disappears when Ironhide gives him a scowl. Optimus smiles as his brother resumes his training with a vengeance. Hopefully the young Prime can complete his duties toward his uncorrupted siblings. Hopefully he can protect Hot Rod from the horrors that younglings shouldn't see.

Meanwhile, in Prowl's private sleeping quarters, the young tactician is panicking. He stands rigidly in place, doorwings stiff, with a thousand thoughts whirling through his processer at a time. What is he going to do? If somehow his tactical advice turns out to be erred, then what? What would he do if the advice he gave Optimus_ Prime_ turns into a huge miscalculation on his part? Hundreds of warriors, medics, civilians and commanders will offline. Pit, Prime will offline! Sentinel Prime will have Prowl's helm for advising Optimus to aid Metropolis!

He will go to Optimus and ask him to get a second opinion from Quick-plot, and then a third from his mentor's Second in Command, Piston. And then he will request that Prime take counsel with Sentinel Prime. Yes, surely one of them will be able to convince the younger Prime to stay in Iacon. And if no one can, Prowl himself will just state his fears that he may have calculated wrong. Yes…. No.

He vents heavily to cool his rapidly overheating frame and tries to bring his emotional core into submission. He is letting it get the better of him and if he don't watch it he will be overwhelmed by it and will fritz out again. Then he will be late and Optimus Prime will have to come looking for him, and will find him in his embarrassing state. These thoughts bring his logic back to a stable level and he feels relief. His spark's pulsing slows into a calm rhythm as he goes over all the information again.

Prowl is not wrong on his calculations. He is right. He went over them many times before he had even uttered a word in the Tactical Office. There isn't an error. He has factored in every variable that he had been given by the scout Hound and he has arrived at the only logical solution.

A soft knock sounds at the door of his chambers and Prowl starts. He checks his internal chronometer and sees that not even two breems (_1 breem= 8.3 earth min.)_ have passed since the young Prime instructed him to get ready to leave. Optimus Prime is early. He stashes the information away in his processor to always be early when doing dealings with the young Prime.

Hurriedly, Prowl opens the door and then freezes. It isn't Optimus Prime.

"Firefly?" He questions his red and black sparkmate.

"Prowl!" She sounds ecstatic to see him. They have not been able to see one another very much since the war began and Prowl enlisted his services to the Autobots. He allows a smile on his normally stoic expression for her benefit and she returns it tenfold.

"What are you doing here?" he asks in a neutral tone and her smile disappears. Pit! That was the wrong thing to say! He struggles to think of something else to say so that she will smile again.

"Well," Firefly says in a happy voice, all grins again when she sees his remorse at being so short, "I wanted to see you. How is the Tactical Office going?"

"It is going quite well, thank you," he pauses and looks at her excited faceplates, "Do you wish to come in and I can tell you of recent developments?"

"Sure," she is delighted to be invited into where he has been residing since joining the Autobot faction. She briefly wonders as she enters what kind of touches he gave to the usually expressionless sleeping quarters they gave to recruits. Prowl can see that she is disappointed as she takes in his completely bare chambers. She hides it quickly though and turns to him beaming. "So what's going on?"

"Optimus Prime requested that I go along to aid the city of Metropolis against the Decepticons," Prowl says feeling quite pleased to tell her of his accomplishment. He fails to notice though, that as he says this the smile slowly drops from her faceplates. "I supplied him with their most probable course of action and he agreed with it. We are leaving now in less than a half joor _(1 joor= 6.5 earth hrs)_ and will be ground bridged close to the location where the scout spotted the enemy last." He stops suddenly as he sees her less than thrilled countenance. Prowl feels confused. Did he say something wrong again?

"You're leaving?" Firefly asks hesitantly with a furrow of her petite optic ridge.

"Yes." Why is this so hard for her to grasp?

The femme looks down to the floor and shuffles her pede slightly and says, "Oh."

"Is something wrong?" Prowl directs the question toward his mate, suddenly dreading her reply.

"Actually," she says, "I wanted to come and talk to you about all this." Firefly gestures a servo to the surrounding area. Prowl stills as she goes silent in an attempt to gather the courage to say what she desired to.

"Go on," he says encouragingly after a few seconds pass.

"Let's leave, Prowl," Firefly blurts suddenly looking up into her sparkmate's faceplates. "Let's just leave all of this and get away from it all. We can go to your old home, Praxus." Is she asking him to do what he thinks she is? "I'll work at the Energon Plant and you can be an Enforcer again, please Prowl. Please, let's just leave." She is asking him to abandon his faction. To desert.

"You want me to leave?" His vocals sound rather stiff as he asks for clarification.

Firefly suddenly appears desperate, "Please, Prowl, we can't stay. We can change our designations and they will never find us! Please, you have to understand that we can't stay! You'll be offlined!" Her lip plates begin quivering, "You'll be offlined," her vocal processer begins to short out with emotion, "and…zzt… we will be—sssss—left…zzzztsss…alone!" Liquid pours from her optics and Prowl just stands there dumbfound. 'We'?

"Firefly," his words sound frustrated even to his audios, "I… I do not understand." Or maybe he did, but he didn't want to. He grips her trembling shoulders in his servos and looks at her delicate faceplates. Why does she have to cry? Prowl's processor fumbles for something to do, something to say. Nothing comes, he draws a blank and he just stands there. Slowly his servos drop back to his sides and he leaves her keening like a distraught youngling.

What should he do? Should he let her cry? Maybe he should order her to stop. He could just leave and let her sit here and cry by herself. Maybe she wants to be left alone. But if he leaves what if it isn't what she wants? He vents and stops himself short of cursing. Femmes are so confusing; they are not good for his logic short out. That is exactly what he's going to do if she doesn't explain herself in detail too. He is going to glitch from too much emotional strain, too many things going through his processer at once.

"Explain yourself." Prowl finally manages. It is, once again the wrong thing to say, and she starts to sob even more vehemently…now what? Prowl seats himself on the edge of his berth and watches the distraught femme. This is not going well. Firefly has got it in her processer that he must abandon the Autobots and run away with her to Praxus. He can't do that, he is just not built that way. He is surprised Firefly even thought about asking that. She must be very desperate about something to resort to such drastic measures.

Firefly calms her crying into poor, pathetic sniffles that makes Prowl feels like knocking himself on the helm. He has driven her to such hysterics; he alone is to blame for her pain. What should he do? His sparkmate looks at him with the saddest optics he has ever seen in all his life. Okay, instead of trying to think what to do, he won't think. _Just do, Prowl_, he tells himself, _just do_. He slowly reaches out and pats the berth to beckon her to come. Firefly does, but very hesitantly. As she sits next to him, he feels his core temperature rise at her nearness. His fans kick on high and Firefly just sniffles, completely oblivious. Where should he go from here? His doorwings flick in confusion.

Firefly catches the movement and wipes the wetness from her optics suddenly embarrassed. Prowl doesn't know what she is crying about. She will tell him, and then maybe he will listen and leave with her. Leave this terrible war.

"I am with sparkling."

Prowl blinks. His doorwings tense in apparent shock. Well, that he was not expecting. Prowl wishes he could smack himself. Why wouldn't he expect it? They are sparkbonded so a sparkling is a definite possibility. That would explain why she suddenly wanted him to leave the war. It is in every femme's nature to want to keep their creations from experiencing such horrors. Of course she didn't want to leave alone; she wanted her… their sparkling to have both creators in its life.

Prowl gazes into his sparkmate's optics and vents heavily, slowly in an act that surprises himself he pulls her to his chassis and holds her close. She vents in contentment and Prowl realizes this is what she wanted from the start. He should have known that. Firefly is a touching femme, to her touch means more than any words. He has to tell her though, that he cannot leave with her, and he doubts she will take it happily.

"I have to stay," Prowl says as softly as he possibly can be.

"I know." Firefly's answer is a barely audible whisper.

Well, she took it a lot better than he expected. Slowly the femme draws away from his embrace and wipes the gathering moisture from her optics. Prowl is suddenly afraid she is going to start crying again as her sniffling becomes more pronounced.

"Hey," Prowl says touching a digit to her wet faceplates, causing her to stare up at him. He cannot let her start sobbing again, "I have formed a plan." A smile works on her face at his words. "You will go to Praxus, and have our sparkling. It will be a femmeling, and she will look like you."

"You have this all figured out, don't you?"

"Yes, do not interrupt," she giggles at his seriousness, "I will fight Decepticons, and I will vanquish all the foes that dare come against the Autobots." This silliness is really making his processer start to hurt, but it is also making Firefly laugh so he continues, "And after this war is over, I will find my fair femme, and my young femmeling waiting for me in the crystal gardens of my home. There we will stay and watch our creation grow and become sparkbonded to some mech that I do not approve of. Then you and I will develop into cranky, old, rusty bots together." His helm ache triples at his last few words. Prowl is really surprised he hasn't glitched yet with all of his nonsense.

"I like this plan," the red and black femme says with a smile that softens whatever tears threatened to linger, "it's not quite what I pictured in my processor, but I like it."

Prowl simply gives her the smile that she is searching his faceplates for, "Really? I've worked on it for quite some time. I wasn't sure you would approve."

"It's close enough to perfect for me."

Prowl falls silent at those words. He wishes suddenly that he could give her what she asked him for, make it perfect instead of just close to it. He wishes that he could just pack up and leave with her, set that silly plan of his in motion sooner than later. He wants to be there when their sparkling opens her optics for the first time, but as he checks his internal chronometer and sees it is time for him to go, he knows he won't.

"I must go," Prowl says finally after bringing his processor back from its wondering. He doesn't want to. He really, really doesn't want to go.

"Mmhmmm," Firefly looks almost ready to cry again, but somehow stops herself from doing so. "Be safe while you're fighting, okay?" She kisses his faceplates quickly and steps out of his chambers; Prowl follows her out and watches her head down the hall. Before she turns the corner she stops and smiles back at him, "See you in Praxus, mech?"

Yes, he will see her in Praxus.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

_Oh My Word! Prowl's being so fluffy I could die! Alright, I hope everyone enjoyed the Prowl fluff, because it isn't going to happen often. If you know Prowl, you'll understand. Please review if you've made it to the end without falling asleep from boredom. I will accept criticism because I want to know what I am doing wrong and how to better my writing, but please keep it clean? Peace out!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Transformers... (sniff, sniff) and I never will. (runs away crying)**

_Alrighty then! This chapter was sort of miserable for me to write. (You will find out why) Once again there are a few O.C.s in this one, a couple of new ones:) Nova-flame, Striker, Underhand, etc. These characters are mine! No touchy! Onward. There is some alien cursing in this chapter along with a lot of energon and gears flying everywhere, so if that disturbs you, I would suggest not reading. Enjoy (I hope) Read and review please! :D_

**Chapter Two**

The femme Commander stares out into the darkness from the height of the gates surrounding Metropolis. Her regal helm is lifted as she strains her blue optics. Cybertron's two moons are dim on this lunar cycle, making it impossible to see further than a few hundred meters out. For all the femme knows those Decepticon cyber-wolves are mobilizing to attack her city.

Well, it's not her city. It used to be under the protection of Galania Prime, the only fembot Prime left on Cybertron that was still online, until recently. The Decepticons have been relentless in their assaults and had eventually managed to offline the ageing femme. Galania's sudden departure for the Well of the All-Spark had left her young S.I.C. as active Commander and protector of the war ravaged city.

The counsel composed of the remaining Primes was far too busy to try and appoint another Prime protector over the city of Metropolis. Not that the Commander could blame them. Megatron took up all of their spare time and that left the less important matters sitting on the back burner. Sure, the Commander is capable enough to ensure the survival of her city for a while longer, but it is only a matter of time. The seeker, Starscream continues to pound violently at the city gates with all explosives he can get his claws on and is offlining her troops faster than she can recruit them.

The pink femme Commander scoffs aloud at the very thought of that incompetent, sniveling, pit spawn actually succeeding in one of his attacks on Metropolis. It will happen eventually, this she knows without a doubt. One solar cycle_(1 earth day)_ that sick, sadistic, whine-bot will conquer the city she is protecting. One solar cycle_(1 earth day)_ his armada is going to prove too powerful for her ground based army's dwindling numbers.

"Elita," the pink femme turns at the sound of her designation being called. Her older sister Chromia looks troubled as she approaches the Commander. "They're coming," the older fembot mutters sourly, looking out in the direction that the idiotic seeker always attacked from. "The scout you sent out came back and told me they are mobilizing to move even as we speak."

Elita1 bites back the curse that springs to her processor as she hears the news. Oh well, it's not like she wasn't expecting Starscream to return. He seemed to have a particular penchant for trying to offline her. The seeker never was the forgiving type, and the time she had yelled insults at him while he was flying just out of her reach must've irritated him more than he'd let on. Sure he had personally tried to cut her helm off after she had shouted her piece at him, but that is to be expected from any mech that is called a femme in front of their troops.

"How soon?" Elita asks as calmly as she can make her vocals sound.

"A couple breems _(1 breem=8.3 earth min_.)," Chromia answers with her optic ridge furrowed.

This time Elita doesn't curb the curse, "Slag!"

Chromia chuckles dryly at her sister's frustration that is seeping through her usually composed front, "Is it that bad?"

"It is worse, Chromia, much worse," the Commander says in a more even tone. "We are still recuperating from the last assault, and are in no way prepared to meet Starscream's armada in an all-out battle. Our army is strong, but few. I'm sad to be the one to admit this but…" Elita shakes her pink helm with a dark look cast in the direction of the seeker's armada, "we can't win this one."

Chromia shrugs like she hasn't a care in the world, "We've dealt with bad odds before, and this time will be no different."

"No, Chromia," Elita hates to be the one to cloud her older sibling's ray of hope she has forged for herself, "I've gone over everything. We cannot win."

Chromia's faceplates twist into a scowl. She glares off into the darkness at the impending danger that draws nearer with every intake of their vents. Her engine growls lowly as she also goes over their resources mentally. Her sister is right. Starscream trumps them every time, no matter how she figures it. Chromia's processor starts to hurt at the taxing she is giving it. She should really just let the tactical bots do what she is trying to. Maybe they will be able to pull a fast one that will win them one more battle against that little winged fragger.

"Hey, I've heard that the Well is nice this time of the vorn_(83 earth years_)," her words make Elita stare at her. Her sister's mouthplates sag a little in shock at Chromia's carefree outlook on a possible offlining.

"That's not funny," the pink Commander snaps.

"You said it yourself, it's unavoidable. Besides who knows, we might be able to slag Starscream this time when he comes after you," Chromia says casually with a wave of her servo. Elita shakes her helm in amazement at her sister. There really is no end to the ways that Chromia surprises her. She should really start expecting the rough femme to make remarks like that by now, but somehow it still manages to take her off guard.

The roar of a seeker engine in the distance catches the femme's attention! Beside her Chromia swears softly and mutters something unintelligible about no-good seekers. Elita simply whirls and races down the stairs from the top of the gate.

The armada is early, very early. Elita mentally scolds herself for being caught flat-pede, but there is no changing that now. She hears the guard at the gate she was just on top of sound the alarm of an attack. Civilians scramble for cover all around her! Sparklings cry in protest against the noise of the siren! Elita's spark twists at the thought of all the bots of Metropolis landing up in Starscream's servos. Even as the Commander reaches the outside of her warriors' quarters she can see them assembling themselves. Just this little fact makes her proud of their ability to exercise discipline and control in the midst of the chaos around them.

Elita stops breathlessly in front of her troops, a mere count of one hundred and twenty-five. Starscream is bound to have twice that many. The Commander gathers her composure quickly as she positions herself in front of her mech and femme army to address them. They are all wonderful fighters and brilliant on the battlefield, but against an armada of seekers and grounders? They will give that little pest, Starscream a run for his victory, but they will be mowed over in the long run. The whole lot of them will be offlined before this lunar cycle comes to an end.

"Mech and femme warriors," Elita begins with her vocals strong, "the Decepticon seeker, Starscream is once again threatening our city!" Her words ring among the bedlam the alarm is causing in the citizens of Metropolis. "He is coming with his armada at this very instant! We will meet his assault with a full frontal attack! Do not leave one Con online! Our snipers will stay in the gates and take out their seekers when they near for a strike!" The pink Commander can see a visible fear come into the optics of a younger, light green femme standing in the frontline. Her designation is Nova-flame if Elita's memory files serve her correctly.

Nova-flame raises her voice, "And what of after the first attack against the armada?"

Elita stays silent for a moment in the middle of the pandemonium in the streets. The sound of the seekers draws nearer and she can almost feel the rumble of their powerful engines in the air. She glances up toward the two moons that have circled her home for generations before answering the lingering question. "There is no after that," the pink femme says and fixes her gaze on her troops, "And Primus be with you."

Chromia is by her side as she turns and leads the small army to the gates of Metropolis. The gates swing open to allow the small, doomed army to pass through. Ironically the march is quiet and solemn, almost like a funeral procession. As they take up battle positions, Elita wonders briefly where her younger sister, Arcee, is and if she is safe. The poor femmeling is probably scared out of her processor and worried sick about her two sisters.

: She is safe, don't worry. : Chromia tells Elita over their private communication link. A vent of relief comes from the pink femme as Chromia eases her sudden worry. Hopefully whoever has taken Arcee to safety will take her deep into the underground tunnels of Metropolis so that the Decepticons will never find her.

From the sides of Elita's optic vision, she sees her snipers lying on the tops of the gate, rifles primed and ready. She can sense her troops growing restlessness behind her as they wait. The rumbling in the air grows in volume and Elita can actually feel the metal beneath her pedes begin to shake with the advance of the grounders. Her spark pulses wildly with energy as the time for battle draws nearer.

To her right a scarlet mech whose designation is Underhand purges his tanks and then stand back rigidly in place after wiping his mouthplates with a quick swipe of his servo. A steel covered fear glints in his dark blue optics. It is a fear that is rational, and Elita can find no fault with him for it. Her own fright pushes at her chassis as the suffocating reality approaches even faster than before.

"Subspace weapons!" Elita's vocals are a lot more commanding than she had ever imagined they could be in such a situation. She can hear the sound of metal sliding smoothly against metal as her warriors follow her order. Elita herself pulls her rifle from her back with the intent of taking as many as she can out from afar. This isn't going to be pretty.

Beside her Chromia subspaces her two identical standard issue plasma cannons. They prime up with a high-pitched whine and whir evenly as she stands next to Elita. Chromia can tell that her own thoughts are being shared with her younger sibling. They are going to offline this cycle, but they sure as the pit aren't going to the Well alone. The older blue femme's engine revs aloud in pre-battle excitement.

The first seeker explodes from the cover of the upper atmosphere with a savage roar and dives toward them at lightning speed! He is followed closely by four more seekers who have the same unmaking war cries on their glossa. In one frozen instant, Elita wonders how it came to this. Cybertronian against Cybertronian, brother against brother, and friends ripped apart by the horrors of war. She knows this first hand, every time the pink femme walks onto the battlefield she takes up arms against one of her closest friends. She silently wonders as the enemy descends on her and her troops if she will ever see the aerial mech that chose the way of deception again, the mech that was her friend. Her snipers lying along the top of the walls guarding Metropolis offline the first seeker and he comes crashing down into a sparking heap of smoking metal by her pedes. As Elita stares at the unknown mech seeker that is lying in a scrap pile she wonders if Cybertron will ever be whole again, or if this war will end their planet as they know it, forever.

"Slag 'em!" Chromia's fierce cry breaks through her paralysis and the pink femme bursts into action, her gears turn and propel her frame into movement. Elita fires her rifle at a seeker who appears to be trying to take out her snipers. Her shot merely glances off his wing and he howls in pain and rage. More seekers rain down on them and the first wave of grounders sweep onto the battlefield!

Elita fires at the grounders, trusting her snipers to take care of the seekers that harass them from the air. Her rifle blast hits a small bot at the base of his helm and blows it to bits. A disgusted sensation fills the noble femme's frame as the energon spurts out of the tangled wires from the helmless mech's throat cables. Elita rips her blue optics from the sight and focuses on her next target, a larger mech. She fires and the blast catches the grey bot high on the shoulder. The mech snarls angrily at his pain and then at the source of it. With a smooth move of his arm he fires an explosive projectile at her, a sneer on his lip plates all the while.

The warhead detonates next to her and sends her sailing forward! Elita lands on her shoulder hard and feels her arm strut crack fractionally from the weight of her whole frame taxing it. She cries out and then mutes her vocals knowing that an injured bot is as good as offlined on the battlefield.

A slender arm wraps around her middle and pulls her up to a standing position. Elita can hear Chromia yelling at her through the disarray, asking her if she is still functioning. Numbly the femme nods and pushes away her sister's supporting arm. The next wave of grounders is coming! No, the next wave is here! They are outnumbered, out gunned! The seekers fire at the gates and Elita sees a white femme sniper, designation, White-Blazer, fall from the top, only a mass of wires and disassembled armor.

Nova-flame is beside her with a blue and white mech Elita knows as Striker. They fend off a grounder that comes at their Commander in her weakened state. Energon from the Decepticon grounder splatters over Elita's faceplates as Striker splices into the Con's neck cables with an arm-mounted blade. Dumbly, the pink fembot stares at the grounder as he falls and just stands there in stupor.

"Are you functional?!" Chromia yells again.

Elita nods again and brings her vocal processor back on line, "Yes." Her arm hurts like pit, and for a moment she considers shorting out the pain receptors there. The instant relief that will courses through her frame if she does taunts her processor unmercifully. The femme refuses to deactivate the pain with an angry resolve at her moment of weakness. It will make her slower, and more dull to attacks if she does and it will be the death of her. Elita grits her denta as the pain surges through her arm, and tries to ignore it.

In a quick survey of the battlefield the femme Commander realizes that they are losing even faster than she thought they would. Already the Decepticons have cut her rank's number in half. The greying offlined frames of her warriors litter around the outside of Metropolis' gate along with those of Con grounders and seekers. It is utter chaos as the Cons and Autobot forces clash in the darkness. Their battle is lighted only by the subtle beams of the two moons in the sky that casts an eerie light on the bodies of the fallen. The spilled energon gleams from wounds and on weapons as Elita searches for what is left of her troops.

In the middle of the ensuing mayhem Elita sees Starscream. He cuts down a dark green mech before whirling with a snarl. The commanding seeker's red optics narrows as he spies her, they blaze evilly as they rest on her. A wicked grin splits his faceplates as his facial recognition programs kick in. He is coming for her. No need, she will go to him!

Elita charges into the Cons' midst vaguely aware of Chromia following her, bawling out a battle scream that could freeze the energon in anybody's wires. Elita is automatically engaged in combat with a huge black mech that sneers at her wickedly. The Con bellows at her and fires his cannon in a direct line with her spark! She dodges lithely and tries to snub the screaming pain in her shoulder. Landing to the side of the enormous mech she crouches in preparation to strike and, with a roar of her own, Elita attacks him. She relies on stealth as her main weapon against this powerful Con. With a long blade fused on her right arm she leaps around him and jumps upon his back. There, at the base of his main energon line, she buries her sword! The huge mech's frame groans loudly as he falls with the femme Commander landing on top with her pedes on his back!

Jerking her blade out of the huge Con, Elita tries to ignore the blue staining its metal. _Focus_! She orders herself heatedly and hunts for Starscream. She has to offline that whiner-bot if no one else! If nothing else comes of this doomed battle it will be said that this was the cycle that the Decepticon S.I.C was offlined! Her optics scans the fray for the seeker and her processor panics slightly when she cannot find him.

Something hits her hard from behind and sends her flying through the air! Elita lands on her shoulder again and feels her arm strut break the rest of the way through! An agonizing cry rips from her vocals before she can stop it. Her sword has broken off from her tumble; her rifle is lost somewhere in the masses of shrieking, offlining Cybertronians! A dull pain rings solidly in her processor as her optics flicker wildly to regain her bearings. A heelstrut steps into her optic vision.

"Well, femme it looks like this is where it ends for you," the high heeled pede kicks her broken arm and she bits back the scream of anguish that tries to force its way out of her mouthplates. She rolls over with the kick, transforming her uninjured arm into her plasma cannon, and fires! The blast strikes Starscream in the chassis and sends him staggering backwards with a biting curse! Elita rolls to her pedes and fires at him again, this time hitting him in the shoulder, tainting his shining grey armor black, scorched, and cracked! She leaps toward him and transforms her cannon into her sword… her broken sword. Oh, slag!

Starscream notices her mistake and takes advantage of it by catching her by her neck in midair! She lets out a strangled gasp and kicks her pedes in a frantic, but vain effort to regain her grounding. Primus, this is it?! This is how she is going to offline?! Starscream cackles and wriggles his talons threateningly. Elita grunts and tries to kick him by thrashing her legs wildly. With a flash of his long, sharp digits, the seeker stabs his long claws into her pink armor! Before Elita can deactivate her vocals an excruciating scream erupts from them!

"Take a look around, Elita1!" Starscream says disdainfully through the noise of her lingering scream. "This. This is where it ends!" Elita claws at his servo holding her captive in suspension. Her neck cables protest the seeker's tight hold on them. "You troops are gone!" The Decepticon S.I.C. holds her out so she can see the remainder of her warriors and snipers being slain. Nova-flame is cut down, a hole blown through her abdominal plates; orange sparks fly from the energon gushing wound. Her blue optics flicker and go dim as her frame falls silently to the ground. Elita tears her optics from the sight with a shudder running down her frame. "This is the cycle that you offline, fembot! You will offline with them!" Tears threaten to form as Striker is stabbed while fighting protectively over Nova-flame's frame. The whole gate is blown by a Con missile, and the pink femme tries to pretend she doesn't see the armor plating and decapitated limbs flying from the explosion. But she does.

A single tear slips down her faceplates. This is her fault. She knows this without a doubt. All of these warrior bots was her responsibility, they were under her protection, her leadership, and she has failed them sorely. She is a failure as a commander.

Starscream sees her tear and leers cruelly, "Such a waste of femme. If you had been a Decepticon things would have turned out much differently. Who knows, maybe it still can, hm?" The seeker hisses using his free servo to finger away the liquid spilling from her optics freely now. He brings her closer and whispers with malice into her audio, "Come with me, femme, and be mine! It is the only way you will survive this cycle." Elita kicks at him manically and only succeeds in dinging his armor. He holds her away from his frame again anyway, wary of her flailing legs. "What say you, Elita1?" His shrill vocals question her with the assurance of offlining if she denied his bargain.

"You," she gasps out as his tightening servo starts to cut off her main energon flow in her neck cables. "You… can go… to pit! You… fragging fem—" he clenches her throat tighter as he realizes what she is about to say. Her processor begins to shut down protectively as he grips her neck!

"Fine then, have it your way, femme!" He throws her to the ground on her back with a growl and activates his arm missile! Starscream's mouthplates quirk in a bad upward tilt as he aims at her, "Have fun in the Pit!"

Elita's optics widen at the sight of her fate and her venting turns even more ragged. She is going to be blown into smithereens like her snipers! Her frame is going to be littered across the carnage of the battlefield! The bots that find the piles of offlined wreckages probably won't even be able to identify her! She will be listed as MIA, her young sister Arcee will never know what happened, and the poor femmeling will be left alone in this cruel world.

Someone will look after Arcee. If nothing else is spoken of the three sisters Chromia, Elita, and Arcee it is said that they have many friends. Yes, someone will take the femmeling in and will look after her. This thought brings peace to Elita's processor, and in final resignation to her doomed fate, the pink femme offlines her electric blue optics to await the inevitable. But it doesn't come.

Explosions of high ranking officers' cannons resonate around her! The battle cries of new voices reach her audios! Starscream screeches in horror in front of her and the sound of an energon sword biting into metal brings her optics back online with a vengeance!

Is she offlined? Has Starscream blown her to the Well of All-Sparks?

A mech almost twice the size of Elita stands halfway over her, defending her from the seeker's wrath! His broad back is toward her as he battles the Decepticon! His energon sword flashes brilliantly as he attacks Starscream and drives him backwards! The huge red and blue mech heel kicks the S.I.C. Decepticon in the chest plates and the action sends the seeker sailing rearward to land on his aft! Energon flows from sword wounds in the Con's armor. Starscream leaps up with a snarl, red optics blazing with anger at being interrupted in his slaying of the pink femme.

The mech standing over her suddenly transforms his sword into a ridiculously large energon cannon and aims it at the seeker. Starscream's optics grow in size and he leaps up into the air to get away from his foe's new attack strategy. As the seeker is changing into his aerial alt-mode the big mech fires after him, the blue blast of hot energy narrowly misses Starscream's helm! His aerial form rises in the air swiftly to escape the new mech's fire power that rains after him that scarcely bypasses him each time!

The large red and blue mech glances back at Elita, "Are you functional?" His vocals are deep and rumbling. Elita's processor feels fuzzy and off balance. Is she offlined? The femme has to wonder this again as the giant mech turns slightly to get a better look at her. His battle mask retracts suddenly as he looks at her with worried blue optics. Elita stares up into what she deems as the most handsome facial plates she has ever seen. She is offlined, she has to be. Elita1 is offline and in the Well of All-Sparks.

The handsome mech reaches down and helps her to her pedes. His servo grazes her broken arm strut and she bits back a cry of pain. Is there supposed to be pain in the Well? She wobbles slightly as she regains her balance. The mech's arm remains around her for support when he sees her shakiness, and she stares up slightly in awe of him with a befuddled processor. Yes, this confirms it! She is in the Well.

A young, black and white, Praxian mech rushes suddenly up to the side of her rescuer, "Optimus!" He shouts above the noise right next to her audios, "There are more Decepticons coming up from behind! It looks like it is going to be another whole wave of fresh fighters!" Okay, she is definitely not in the Well.

"Where is Ironhide?" Comes the regal reply.

"Busy! He seen them coming! If we pull back then launch a counter attack from the side we may be able to cut our losses rather than if we just meet them head on!" The Praxian's roaring in her audios is really starting to give her a processor-ache. Is it necessary? She blinks her optics blearily at the doorwinged mech.

"Go aid half of our mechs and the remaining Metropolian troops in a counter attack!" The blue and red mech called Optimus orders, his deep voice sending waves of calm into Elita. The remaining troops! That means some of them are still online! Relief quickly courses through the pink Commander's wires as the information sinks into her processor. The doorwinger nods with an emotionless mask coming to his faceplates as he turns back to wade into the ruckus of battle once more. Good, he is gone! He was starting to annoy.

Optimus' optics is on Elita again with concern radiating clearly from their electric blue depths, "Femme, are you functional?" This is the second time he has asked this, she must look like slag. Elita opens her lip plates to reply only to be cut off by an even louder screaming command.

"Decepticons!" Starscream shrieks, "Offline the Autobots! Leave the pink femme Commander for me!" His words are howled out like a crazed cyber-wolf, even as his voice rings out across the battlefield the new horde of Cons swarm into the fight! Starscream himself dives down toward Optimus in a strike attack! His grey frame becomes barely a streak in the atmosphere as he plunges downward toward the blue and red mech!

Optimus releases Elita instantly and allows her to fall back to the ground before pulling his energon cannons back into play and firing in quick succession at the enraged seeker! Starscream roars his anger as he transforms and crashes directly into Optimus, knocking the heavier mech to the ground and then wailing to the other seekers for backup! No one comes to his aid so the S.I.C. leaps up, turns and runs for the new Con fighters as they clash with the Autobots! He is cursing his armada aloud all the while as he runs. Perhaps he can lead Optimus away from the pink Commander and then can circle back to exact his revenge on her while the rest of the Decepticons keep the Autobot leader distracted.

Optimus is on his pedes again and he fires after the seeker's fleeing silhouette. The blue blast of energy courses after the seeker and collides with Starscream's aft in a burst of flames! Starscream's cry of pain and rage is enough to confirm that he is hit. He limps franticly for a few steps, before transforming and taking to the air again. Starscream soars over the slaughter, firing upon random Autobots as he does. He will more than likely double back and try once more to take Optimus out.

Elita1's rescuer turns to address her, "Femme, stay here and stay down. It is unlikely a Decepticon will come this way." Optimus turns to follow the seeker's path toward the battle.

"What?" Elita's vocals are sharp enough to stop the mech in his tracks.

"You appear to have sustained minor damages to your command unit, which is why you have a difficult time with staying upright. You will be safer here," Optimus answers her angry question before rigidly snapping his battle mask back into place and plowing into the ensuing free-for-all.

Elita glares after the mech and pushes herself shakily to her pedes, searching the Autobot forces for a familiar face from her troops. She can see the scarlet mech Underhand is still online and is engaged in a deadly battle of swords with a dark grey grounder. Energon flows from many wounds on his frame, but he is still fighting with a ferocity that says he isn't seriously hurt. Underhand is the only one she sees at the moment. Where is Chromia?! Elita franticly whirls quickly in a circle, her uninjured arm flailing wildly to keep herself upright, searching the wreckage for her sister! The pink femme calls to her sister through their private comm with a panic evident in her voice.

: Chromia?! : No answer. : Chromia, come in! : Elita sways then stumbles and overcorrects her misstep. With a grunt she crashes to the ground on her skidplate. Minor damages to the command unit, huh? More like damage to the entire balance systems!

: I'm a little busy at the moment, Elita! :

Relief fills Elita's entire frame as her sister's voice comes through their private link. She is online! Of course she is! Chromia has always told her that if it came down to a 'last bot standing' fight that she would be there. Elita is glad for once that her sister is as rough as she is. Deciding then not to distract her sibling, Elita cuts the communication and focuses her attention on the battle playing out before her optics. There has got to be somewhere that she can be useful!

Elita catches a glimpse of Chromia in the chaos fighting back to back with a black, brutish, Autobot mech with huge cannons welded to both of his arms. They battle in a deadly synchronized style that leaves nothing but energon and grey offlined frames in their wake. Chromia stabs her short sword into the gears of a Con grounder and leaves it to whirl and blast another to the pit! The huge black mech pivots to keep the femme's back covered. He grabs her abandoned sword with a savage bellow and jerks it upward, splicing the dark purple grounder neatly in two! His colossal cannons prime up with a whir and he turns suddenly and fires over Chromia's shoulder to completely dismantle a Con that is giving her trouble.

Chromia will be alright, Elita decides with her processor still fuzzy. The mech will look after her. With that resolved Elita stumbles to her pedes once more and staggers in the direction that Optimus went after Starscream. She will find that sick little winged Con and she will offline him permanently for what he did to her troops. For all she knows Chromia and Under-hand are the only ones left of her army. Just this thought enrages the pink femme to a point of her seeing red. Without another care for her well-being she primes her uninjured arm's plasma cannon and clambers unsteadily onward toward the turmoil of the battle.

*l*l*l*l*l*l*l*l*l*l*l*l*l*l*l*l*l*

_Who is this mysterious black mech with the enormous cannons that is fighting alongside Chromia?! lol I'm sure everyone already knows. Anyway, hope you like it. Please review!_

_P.S. A BIG thanks to Nightshade who is my very first reviewer... ever. I was so thrilled that I flopped on the floor and rolled around squealing for a long while. Yeah, it was intense for a bit. And I hurt my knee while I was rolling, but I didn't feel it until after the happiness wore down. Which took a couple of hours... *,,*_


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: If I owned Transformers I would be sitting in the Rocky Mountains in a log cabin, with absolutely no homework to do, millions and billions of dollars, and writing the next plot of TF 4 myself so that Michael Bay can't kill off any more of my favorite characters(Jazz and Ironhide?! Common!)... but alas life has dealt me a completely different hand.**

_So... another chapter. This first part is for all of you Megatron fans out there. (My co-writer was horrified that I even thought of writing in his point of view but I felt like shaking things up a little) Please read and review, let me know if I am doing something wrong or making somebot act out of character or something. Also keep in mind that there are characters in this story that I made up myself so please keep all paws off of those select few. (Quick-plot, Sonic-blaster, Striker, Nova-flame, Underhand, etc.)_

_A quick warning: Much alien swearing going on in this chapter courtesy of Ultra Magnus. So if that's not your cup of tea... _

**Chapter Three**

He is enormous, powerful, and unstoppable. Nothing is going to get in his way. Not Optimus, not Sentinel, nor Ultra Magnus. He will win this war quickly and decisively. He will make a daring move, one that will shock everyone. One that will have Sentinel on his knee-plates begging for mercy, and will make Optimus wonder how he ever missed this. Yes, Megatron has his plan, and it is a merciless one. Once this plan is set in motion there will be no going back to the life he used to live. Not that he would want to. There is no way he is going to go back to being under the command of his younger brother Optimus.

Megatron nearly growls as he waits silently in the shadows. Why the Matrix chose his sibling he will never know. Optimus is a peace loving bot. He cannot do the necessary things to rule Cybertron. He cannot make the needed sacrifices. Megatron scoffs inwardly, their creator has left his own S.I.C. Sonic-blaster with Optimus to help him along in making decisions. Sonic-blaster is even more soft than Optimus! That is why this war is going to be over before it is even begun. Megatron has found a way to defeat the Autobots in one easy step.

Sure finding an Autobot that wasn't as loyal as what he allowed everyone to believe wasn't easy. In fact it was the hardest part of his whole plan. But he has managed it, finally!

When he had learned that Sentinel Prime was away with his sibling Ultra Magnus and the elite guard trying to defend the bigger cities from his scores of followers he had known. He had known this was the time to set his plot in motion. No other would be more perfect. Optimus is still young and naïve, he will want to believe the best out of his elder brother and that is just what Megatron wants.

The time for trying to confuse them with peculiar battle strategies is done. Now he will attack them where it will hurt his enemies the most. Right where they least expect it. It is already in motion. Starscream is attacking Metropolis as he, Megatron waits. Optimus is going to Metropolis just as Megatron knew he would, some know-it-all bot to direct him there. The battle is probably in its aftermath right now. The Autobot will win of course, Megatron knows this, and they are now cleaning up the damages Starscream managed to inflict upon the Metropolian troops.

He will have Metropolis eventually, and Iacon, and the whole of Cybertron before his plan is completely demonstrated. Nothing will stand in his way, not even Primus or Unicron themselves. He will extinguish every Autobot, every sympathizer, ever sparkling that is being raised by the sympathizers. He will offline every Neutral as well. After he takes out the youth sectors as he plans to in the future the Neutral bots will automatically chose the side less prone to violence. The weaker faction. The Autobots. Therefore they must all be taken care of early in the war.

Megatron sends a private comm ping to his bot on the inside to confirm that Optimus has indeed departed for the city of Metropolis. His brother is a fool to fall so easily into a trap, Megatron thinks as he commands for the comm link to be opened.

: Is everything prepared? :

The bot hesitates slightly allowing a moment of guilt to pause his betrayal before answering with resolve : Yes, Optimus has left for Metropolis almost a joor_( 6.5 earth hours)_ ago. He only took half of them though so security is going to be a little tighter than I previously anticipated. :

A growl sounds through the comm link as Megatron realizes that his brother might've unwittingly just thwarted his scheme, : Can you still get me in? :

: Yes, it will just be a little more difficult. Instead of coming in the back gate of Iacon, go to the western one. When you reach it there will be only two guards on duty. But you must hurry more are already on their way. :

Megatron smirks, that idibot on the inside underestimates him. With little effort Megatron lifts into the air, transforms and secretly makes his way to the west gate of Iacon. As he nears he can see the two Autobots on guard, they are talking to one another in hushed tones that leave room to notice their surroundings. Megatron doesn't waver as he resumes bi-pedal mode and strikes down the first guard on the watch tower with his sword tearing into the Autobot's body! The second guard barely has time to gasp in shock at his companion's riddled frame before Megatron leaps off of it and lands soundlessly in front of him.

The bot's optics widen as he is about to shout a warning that will reach the audios of many more guards. Megatron will be stopped on this day! Something stabs sharply and painfully into the guard's chassis. Horror fills the black Autobot's frame as he sees the Decepticon leader's servo buried deep into his chest armor.

"Shhhhh," Megatron whispers to the mech with a clawed digit touching his serrated mouthplates. The Autobot guard's frame jerks in a spasm as the Decepticon rips his spark chamber out in a mess of wires and energon. Megatron allows the lifeless metal to fall before crushing the flickering blue encasement in his servos. "Too easy," Megatron hisses lowly before advancing in his predetermined path.

He walks easily through the shadows of the city, being careful that the other guards on patrol wouldn't catch a glimpse of him. The new guards going to the gate he has entered through will find the offlined bots. Megatron sneers inwardly, let them. Let them double their guards, search in vain for him and franticly look over their shoulders for fear that he will be there.

As the Decepticon mech slips silently into the Iacon base through the unlocked door his traitor bot had provided he feels like laughing. This is the reason the Autobots will lose. There will always be power hungry bots. There will always be one who's terrible lust for control will over ride their loyalty. One who will betray his faction.

Megatron frowns as he walks through the darkened halls of the base. That certainly isn't the case with the Decepticons. Oh, no, the danger with his followers is that they will grow soft and develop feelings of remorse. There can be no regrets in a war. Megatron scowls deeply and vows inwardly to torture and slowly offline any of his followers that dare to defect to the wretched Autobot cause.

The huge grey mech pauses slightly and glances around the corner to check for any of the soft-sparked bots he was just thinking of. With none in sight Megatron crosses the intersection of halls. His inside mech must really be holding the strings in this base to be able to insure that there are no guards or warriors roaming the halls where the Con will be. If the mech can get him out of here without arousing suspicion then he might prove to be useful for a while longer.

Which room is his prize in? Megatron stops and glances around in annoyance at all the doors in the particular hall the traitorous Autobot had said his reward would be. It has been a while since he has been in Iacon, Megatron thinks to himself as his red optics flick over the doors. The red glowing gaze stops on the door that leads to the Tactical Office. A smirk flits across his dark faceplates as he leans his helm against the cool metal of the entrance and strains his audios to hear what is transpiring within.

He can hear his inside mech, who sounds very bothered. His prize and a third bot are present also. Aggravation springs up in Megatron's frame, who is this third bot? He listens a while longer before relaxing with a smugness, it is a youngling, nothing that will be a problem. He shoves the door open with a rough servo. It clangs dully against the wall causing all three inside the room to jump at its loudness.

Hot Rod's blue optics become as wide as saucers when he sees Megatron enters the Office with a leer on his faceplates. He is here! Megatron is here! How did he get in?! How did he get past everyone and make it to the Tactical Office?! The youngling and his friend Springer scramble to the furthest wall from the Con. Springer, with his spark pulsing fearfully in his chassis, stands a little in front of his playmate as if to defend him physically from the Decepticon. Megatron glances at the green youngling's heroism and snorts. The sound makes the mechling pull back in fright.

"Do not be afraid, little mechling," Megatron addresses the green one, his voice low. "I have only come for my brother."

"Yeah?! Well Optimus isn't here!" Springer growls at him with such ferocity that Megatron considers taking him as well. The youngling is going to make a brilliant warrior with his courage and willingness to defend. No, Megatron shakes the thought from his processor, he is already too old. He is too implanted with the Autobot's thinking to ever make a good Decepticon.

"You misunderstand, youngling," Megatron replies and approaches him. Springer backs fractionally, then straightens in defiance and clenches his servos to protect his friend. The grey mech reaches out and merely backhands the green mechling to the opposite side of the room. Springer hits the wall with a crash and lays still.

Hot Rod gapes after him, "Springer!" The youngling roars with a righteous wrath and attacks the Con with both servos. He will teach Megatron! He will teach him to mess with his friends, to come into the base, to do everything he's done! Megatron catches the enraged youngling by the arm and sighs like Hot Rod is the biggest nuisance he has ever seen. Holding his sibling out, and away from his frame, the Con turns to look at the Autobot traitor.

"How in the name of Unicron did you manage to clean the halls of the scum that usually plagues it?" Megatron asks the black and grey mech who had gotten him through the tight security.

Quick-plot shrugs, "When one is the head tactician, one has a certain degree of power."

The Decepticon warlord grins at the tactician's answer before he waves his servo, "Open the ground bridge to Kaon." Quick-plot narrows his blue optics at the order, "After I am through you may erase the coordinates from the base's mainframe memory. I will be in touch with you if you manage to stay under the Autobot's radar."

Hot Rod is staring wide-optic at the tactician. Quick-plot? He let Megatron in?! A sharp pang of betrayal stings the youngling's spark as the older mech opens the ground bridge that will take them to Kaon. Hot Rod suddenly fights. He fights with the pain of treachery ripping into him, he kicks and claws as Megatron stand impatiently for the bridge to open.

He brother grows weary of his tantrum and lifts him to peer into his optics, "If you do not remain still, I will offline your friend." The growling threat quiets the mechling quickly. Hot Rod glances over at Springer as the bridge opens with large tears threatening to fall. He hopes that Springer will be okay, and that he is still conscious enough to know that Quick-plot is a traitor.

Megatron notices his sibling's sniffling and smirks before dragging him forward into the blue and green porthole that will take them to the Decepticon capitol. Hot Rod stumbles fractionally and glances back over his shoulder at his unconscious friend and the turncoat. A sinking feeling rises in the youngling's gears as the ground bridge sucks them up that he may never see the Autobots again. He feels regret as the swirls of light blast them toward Kaon that he caused so much trouble for Ironhide and Optimus before they left. He had been a royal pain in their afts and he knows it. He wishes that he could say sorry to Springer for not being able to keep Megatron from hurting him, and he feels anger at Quick-plot.

But there is something else that almost drowns out all of these other feeling. Swirling in a daunting cloud above all of the tormenting, conflicting emotions that harass his spark is a deep and unrelenting fear.

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As Elita approaches the mayhem of combat a dark grey Con sees her. With an unrestrained screech he charges at her, battle axe swinging above his helm ready to dismantle her. She shoots the Decepticon in the faceplates with angry resolution and the hot blast sends the mech flying backwards with a scream. His faceplates will be searing hot for quite some time. Elita's optics fuzz over and she teeters to the side. The femme falls over the corpse of one of her troops; the sparkless frame isn't even recognizable to her anymore. Shoveling away from the gruesome sight with the fallen mech's spilled energon covering her good arm; Elita gulps back a cry of guilt that she led this nameless bot to his offlining. She will avenge him, she will avenge all of them by offlining that accursed seeker.

Where is Starscream?! Elita surges to her pedes only to fall on her faceplates again among the offlined. She will find that pit-spawned seeker and will make him pay for this! Elita rises and firmly plants both pedes; slowly she begins to walk toward the main fight.

Elita can see the energon flying with every flash of the sword, with every blast of the cannons, as she approaches. She spies Optimus being over-powered with five of Starscream's seekers. They are winning against him and his fierce optics show that he knows it. Starscream will be there too. Elita runs awkwardly toward the assault. Her cannon whirs into action and when she is within range of the seeker swarmed Autobot, she fires. The plasma blast burns into the closest seeker's shoulder armor. He snarls frenziedly, his wild red optics looking for the source of his discomfort. He spots her immediately and his sneer turns into a yawning grin that chills the femme Commander.

"Here, femme, femme, femme," the seeker calls maliciously to her, his vocals sounding slightly crazed as he does. He succeeds in scaring Elita, so she shoots him. He yowls in anger as the plasma nicks his hip plating and flies past him. Elita fires in quick sequence the hot blast from her cannon fly wildly in a wide range of shots.

More pained and maddened screeches from behind the eccentric seeker follow her cannon fire. Two other Decepticon seekers pause momentarily in their battle against Optimus to search for where the new blasts of fire power is coming from. Starscream is there and he spots the battle worn femme, an evil cackle bites Elita's audios as Starscream leaps up into the air and out of his physical struggle with Optimus. He transforms and soars at her. As he nears he switches to bi-pedal form and kicks her in the chassis before transforming to his aerial mode and sweeping around her for another strike. Elita feels ire rising in her core as she rolls backwards, usually she would've been able to deflect that attack.

The pink femme commander skids to a stop on her back with a cry of pain as her broken arm strut clangs sharply against the ground. From her peripheral vision she sees Optimus manage to fight loose of the seekers that still remain. He throws a big one away from himself with a fierce roar and hits another in the faceplates with his clenched servo. The Con seeker is knocked absolutely senseless and falls to the ground in a crumpled heap of metal.

"Immobilize him!" Starscream barks out the command from the air to the armada that is still functioning, and they attack the red and blue mech with a renewed vigor. From her place on the ground Elita shoots at the Cons and misses half the time. One of her shots goes wild and nicks Optimus on the upper arm, a gasp sounds from Elita as he grunts at the unexpected hit. The mech staggers backwards and a missile from the crazy seeker sails by where he had just been fighting. It explodes behind him with such force that the whole mass of bots, Autobot and Con alike, are thrown with the blast.

Starscream suddenly lands over Elita1, his wings tucking into their place as he transforms into his bi-pedal mode, legs outspread and a vast ominous grin on his faceplates. A startled cry leaves her lip plates as he leans down and laughs callously. The seeker puts a gentle clawed digit in the middle of the femme's chassis and presses. As the tip of his talon digs into her outer armor, Elita mutes her strangled cry. She is lying helplessly in the middle of scores of offlined bots. Here she is going to offline.

Starscream draws his servo back slightly and tenses his claws to strike at her to sever her spark chamber right out of her frame. A loud blast sounds closely and sparks rain down on the femme, momentarily blinding her to her surroundings. Something screams in her blindness and a heavy metallic object strikes her solidly on the faceplates. The echoes of a transformation crashes right above her and hot air hits her frame, signaling a seeker's jet propellers have kicked in. Her optic's blurry vision clears to see Starscream rip into the dark sky, only his fiery propellers visible in the night's atmosphere. A large, grey, disconnected arm is on top of Elita, energon jetting out in rivulets and covering her completely as she stares stupidly at the turn of events.

"Decepticons!" The Con commander screams to his remaining numbers from his safe distance in the sky, "Retrieve my arm and fall back!" With his order shouted the S.I.C. turns and tears through the dark sky, his remaining slagged seekers follow close behind. None of the retreating Decepticon grounders make a move to follow their Commander's final order to recover his missing limb which lays beside the confused pink femme.

Optimus' pede-falls approach her and stop next to her side. His blue optics peer down at her and his battle mask is retracted. He has to be so ticked at her for coming back into the fight. Elita tries her best not to look sheepish.

"You saved my life, femme," the huge mech rumbles and kneels next to the injured Commander, "Thank you." Elita1 blinks up at him. What? She had shot him in battle and it had just happened to knock him out of the way. She had shot him. Why is he not mad? Wait, why should she care if he's mad or not? This mech is below her and can go pound slag metal for all she cares. She is his superior.

A black and green mech saunters over the frames of the offlined and stands next to the kneeling Optimus. His optics scans critically over the injured femme and the red and blue mech next to her before he speaks, "Prime, the Decepticons have retreated and they have left their injured behind."

Elita's audios stutter at the first word to leave the black and green mech's lip plates. Prime?! This is Optimus Prime?! She stares at him and wonders if she would've realized his identity sooner if she wasn't damaged. She's never really seen the mech up close, and personal before; she is in admiration of him and his massive stature and commanding presence. This is a Prime! Right in front of her! Oh, sweet Primus, her processor is spinning. Get a grip! Her processor calms immediately at the femme's harsh order to herself.

Optimus Prime is answering the black and green mech, "Have them taken as prisoners and have their damages checked by a medic. Regroup the troops and count the losses. Report back to me the number of casualties." The black and green mech nods his highlighted helm and marches away to carry out his orders.

Prime's optics turn back to her and her gears turn in embarrassment under his gaze, "Have you acquired any other wounds, femme?" His baritone voice is delightful to the femme's audios. For a while longer she gazes at him content to just look and take in his fine features, but as Optimus' optics narrow in concern she snaps from her muteness.

"Yes, my arm strut is broken," she states formally with as less pain in her vocals as she can manage.

"Can you stand?"

"I believe so," Elita says and struggles to rise. As her pedes regain her footing and she straightens into an upright position her helm begins to spin. Her optics flicker suddenly and she becomes top heavy. She staggers forward and crashes helm first into the Prime's chassis armor. His large arms catch her there before her frame can descend any further. For a split astrosecond _(1/2 earth seconds)_ she stays there and marvels at how strong he feels and how warm his outer armoring is. Elita jerks away from him suddenly, faceplates ablaze in shame at her awkward flop onto him. She just fell against the Prime! And then she stayed there and liked it!

"What is your designation, Commander?" The Prime asks to ease her sudden shamefacedness. The electric blue optics that watches her is young, but battle worn. How many times has this mech had to lead his troops into a battle like this?

Elita shakes her helm in anger at her constantly wondering processor before answering. "Elita1," much to the femme's dismay her vocals crackle like a sparkling just learning their dialect. Optimus Prime probably thinks she has a few bolts loose in her processor, he probably thinks that she is a failure as a leader to her troops. As this thought enters Elita's processor her helm hangs fractionally.

"I will take you to a medic, Elita1," Optimus' voice is suddenly gentle as he sees her sorrow clouding her faceplates. He's seen it many times before, survivor's guilt he has heard it called. The medic Ratchet described it as a 'why them and not me' feeling. Prime himself has felt it on more than one occasion after a battle of so great of losses.

This young femme shouldn't be feeling this. She has done an admirable job in protecting her city against the Decepticon seekers. Carefully he places a guiding servo on her intact arm to steady her, before leading her through the wreckage.

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Chromia stares in disgust at the Con corpse that she had just offlined only kliks _(1 klik= 1.2 earth min.)_ before. The slaggers deserved whatever she could give them. She had seen the young warrior Nova-flame struck down and it had fueled her into a rage that made her see red. The light green femme warrior is now being rushed to the city of Iacon for emergency repairs along with the mech that saved her spark, Striker. The mech Underhand is being treated by a field medic since his damages are not threatening. Those three along with only eighteen others have survived the skirmish. Twenty-three in all, including her and Elita, twenty-three out of one hundred and twenty-five are still online. Deep inside Chromia resists the urge to shoot the lifeless frame of the Con before her until there is nothing left but gears. It won't do any good. What's done is done, and she can't change it.

The battle has been spent and the time for anger is over. Chromia glances across the large area littered with the frames of enemies, friends and strangers. She is glad that she isn't offlined with them, but she knows that she should be. There really isn't any reason Chromia should be standing with only minor damages. She should be slagged to the pit and back, an unrecognizable wad of metal and wires like the rest of the troops that were offlined on this lunar cycle _(1 earth night)_.

She would be too, if not for him. Chromia glances at the black mech that is searching for wounded bots only mere meters away. Who the bulky warrior is, she has no idea. He had shown up in the nick of time though. She had been surrounded and had known that her time was up and then he came charging into the fray like a berserk bot on dark energon. His cannons were blazing like plasma from the Pit and he was baying out a war whoop as if there was no next solar cycle _(1 earth day)_.

Chromia eyes the black mech's huge cannons with narrowed optics. She really has never seen a more battle built Autobot than this one. As she is observing him he grunts and shoves a Con's lifeless frame with his pede.

"You find anyone?" She asks him for the sake of conversation to get her processor away from the listless optics staring at her from all directions. The mech looks up at her with startled optics. He seems surprised that she is speaking to him and appears to be slightly taken with her. Chromia smirks suddenly among the sorrow that she is feeling, another typical mech.

"No," the black Autobot says suddenly remembering to answer her, "Not a one."

Chromia surveys the piles of frames and the field medics walking slowly through the wreckages checking for survivors as she and this mech are. In the distance she sees her sister, Elita walking slowly beside a large red and blue mech. Chromia's identification programs kick in and she registers the Autobot as Optimus Prime. What is he doing here? She watches the two as Prime leads Elita to a field medic, who proceeds to look at her injuries.

The black mech beside her notices Prime also and suddenly stalks toward him. Curious, Chromia follows him and wonders what is transpiring. All the blue femme knows is that they were fighting, they were losing, and then suddenly that bully of a mech shows up beside her and just like that they're winning. And Optimus Prime is here.

"Optimus," the black mech starts to speak as he reaches the Prime and her sister, "We've checked over the north corner, there's no one online over there." His vocals seem somewhat angry at the statement. Optimus shutters his optics slightly at the news and Chromia scowls. He is really acting as if he cares that her troops, her friends just offlined in this terrible cycle. Like a regular high ranked politician bot.

"Keep searching, Ironhide," Optimus Prime says his voice genuinely heavy and the black mech nods his helm before trudging over the offlined. Chromia watches Ironhide leave with narrowed optics before turning her attention back to the Prime and her sister. Weariness shows prominently in Optimus' electric blue optics as he watches the field medic treat Elita's damages. As the medic finishes Prime looks at him expectantly.

"She will be fine," the kind, soft-spoken medic says with a half-hearted smile, "Her processor got a little shaken up from a blast and I set her arm strut back into place so that her self-repair systems can start working. I did weld the puncture wounds on her armor and I checked her neck wiring, so far as I can tell she is good to go."

"Thank you," Prime says with a glance at the pink femme.

Chromia's frame fills with sudden relief at the news. Elita will be fine. Her wounds are nothing that time and self-repair systems can't handle. Even Optimus looks relieved at the positive news, he is looking at Elita who is standing dejectedly like a youngling and his gaze softens considerably. If Chromia didn't know any better she would say that the Prime was staring. The blue femme fights the urge to snort. Mechs! If their processor wasn't on killing it was on femmes.

Ignoring Optimus Prime, Chromia approaches her sister. As Elita looks up into the older femme's optics, Chromia cocks her helm in a silent inquiry if she is going to be all right. The pink sister tiredly nods before glancing over at Optimus. Chromia's gaze follows her sibling's to the waiting Prime.

"Thank you, Prime, for aiding me and my—" Elita's vocals fritz momentarily in a sudden rise in her emotional core, "my t-troops." Even as the femme Commander manages to speak her voice crackles with static.

Chromia's frown deepens; her sister isn't usually this emotional. The blast the field medic spoke of must've really shaken her up. The blue femme glares at Optimus, half expecting and half daring him to be condescending toward her younger sibling's obvious guilt and grief.

Much to her surprise the Prime appears to be sharing Elita's feelings. His faceplates seem strained with an expressive pained look. Optimus is silent for a moment to allow the pink femme to regain her composer before he speaks, "Elita1?"

Chromia's optics narrows severely at his usage of her sister's given designation. Femme, fembot, or Commander would be way more appropriate. The blue femme chokes back her thinking immediately, it is the mech's right as a Prime to call anyone exactly what he wishes.

Elita's moist optics meet the Prime's for an instant before they flick away, "Yes sir?"

"I can dispatch a squadron of mechs here to look after your city until you can recruit more troops of your own. They would strictly be under my long distance command, but they would give you the time to restructure the Metropolian force," Optimus' vocals are quite soft and they are spoken as if Elita might break if they weren't.

"Thank you, sir," Elita doesn't protest his proposal in the least. Chromia scowls silently, she would bet her favorite plasma cannon that he is going to show up more than once to 'check up on things'. And the blue femme is almost never wrong on her hunches.

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Optimus straightens at Elita's answer, relief filling his wires. Now at least the city of Metropolis would have time to regroup and pull together another army. He can't help but feel guilt-ridden about the fate of the pink Commander's troops. If he had set the departure time a little earlier then maybe Elita, her sister Chromia, and the mech Underhand wouldn't be the only ones left able to functionally walk off the battlefield. Unable to look at the two femmes any longer through his remorse he nods once to them before turning and sauntering off to find the tactician Prowl.

The mech is a tactical genius. For a moment there on the battlefield it looked as if the Decepticons were going to overthrow them with their seekers. Thank Primus Optimus had asked the young Praxian to come with, if he hadn't suggested they pull some of their forces back to counter attack the fresh wave of grounders they would have been slagged. Optimus can see him with a field medic getting his few injuries taken care of.

"Prowl," he catches the mech's attention with his designation and the doorwinger stands rigidly to face him. This mech is very formal, Optimus notes silently before continuing, "When the Decepticons retreated there were still great numbers of them, how likely do you deem it that they will return for a second strike at Metropolis?"

The Praxian's doorwings flick in surprise that the Prime would ask his opinion again so soon after his latest advice had cost him many warriors, "Practically none." His voice bespeaks his confusion at the Prime's seeking of his counsel.

"You are sure?" Optimus asks for an explanation.

"The chances of Starscream returning with his armada scattered is 6.905%, with the added fact that he harbors damages the probability is reduced to 2.001%," the mech answers his processor barely appearing to strain itself with the tactical equation.

Optimus is satisfied with the answer. He glances over the piles of offlined bots and feels more relief fill his frame. The Metropolian troops wouldn't be able to handle another attack, nor would his mechs. The Prime's optics flit over to where Elita1 is still standing motionlessly staring over the masses of lifeless frames and his spark twists painfully. She shouldn't have to go through this. Neither she nor her sister should have to be partakers of this awful war. He wishes somehow that he could make sure that emotional damage to such a degree as this would never happen to her again.

A slight ping catches his attention to his private comm link.

: Optimus. : It is his mech creator, Sentinel Prime.

: Yes, Father? :

: I felt your battle through the bonds. You are functional, I hope? : The older Prime's vocals are softer than they normally are.

: Yes, there was another attack on Metropolis. I took half of the troops to-: Optimus' voice is cut short as a tearing pain sears across his spark on an emotional level. The young Prime's vents catch at the ferocity of the anguish that hits him like a physical blow to the chassis. He staggers back a step with confusion on his faceplates as well as pain. What is this?

Prowl's optics are watching him with worry, "Prime? What is wrong?"

"I—" Optimus grimaces as another flash of the strong emotion reaches him. This time he feels the prominent fear that thrums against his chest armor with every pulse of his spark. Someone is hurt, someone needs help. No. Another blaze of feeling slashes at his spark. Someone is being deliberately injured. They are betrayed and alone with their enemies. They are frightened.

: Optimus? : Worry is ringing clearly through Sentinel Prime's voice now as he calls to his creation to check on his wellbeing.

: Are you alright? : Optimus asks his father with his own concern betraying his vocals, : Is Ultra Magnus with you? :

: Yes, did you feel the pain also? :

Optimus' processor whirs in overdrive as he struggles to make sense of the waves of emotional pain he is feeling. It isn't his creator or Ultra Magnus. Hot Rod is back at base so it couldn't be him, could it? A deep panic settles into the young Prime's core as he searches through his bonds and finds that the unsettling waves of phantom pain are inded coming from his youngest co-creation's bond. The young Prime reaches out through the bond toward his sibling in worry and is met by a bombardment of terror, rage, and agony. What is happening to his brother that is causing the negative flow of emotions?! Optimus hastily comms the Iacon base, his own fear beginning to take a deep root. Quick-plot answers after a long while and his vocals sound crackly as if they have not been used for some time.

: Quick-plot, where is Hot Rod? :

: I, I don't know. But Optimus he was here! Megatron was here! : Quick-plot's voice rises in decibels in urgency as he gives Optimus the news. : He was right here in the Tactical Office! He, he knocked me unconscious and-: The comm is cut off for a moment before the tactician continues, :Optimus, I have to go, Springer is injured, and from the looks of it, the slagger took Hot Rod! :

The young Prime's gears churn. Megatron was at Iacon? He took Hot Rod? But why?! The pain crashes through his spark again in a fresh swell of intensity. He is hurting him! The thought almost drives Optimus insane with rage. Megatron is hurting Hot Rod! His cooling systems hit their max and his engine roars loudly with his mounting fury. Worry reaches though his father's bond but Optimus ignores it. He can feel Magnus' growing anxiety also and snubs that too. The young Prime is going to go to Kaon and rip Megatron's spark out and shove it down his throat pipe! How dare he take Hot Rod!

"Prime?" It is Prowl and his vocals are slightly unsure as he speaks carefully to the enraged Autobot. "Someone is ground bridging to our location."

Optimus whirls with a snarl on his lip plates toward the blue-green orb of light that appears only meters away. If this is Megatron, he is going to dismantle him! His wrath only propagates as two bots' forms appear through the bridge. If this is Megatron, he is going to punch his helm into a mere rubble pile with no resemblance to what it is supposed to be! If this is Megatron, he is going to snap every bit of armor off that accursed mech's body with just his servos to aid him! If this is—

To Optimus' surprise it is Sentinel Prime and Ultra Magnus. They approach the visibly infuriated mech with concerned optics. They both have questioning looks on their faceplates as they near. Virtually nothing can get Optimus to lose his temper, and this mech that is standing in front of them sure as the Pit don't have his under control.

"Optimus?" Ultra Magnus' worry clearly sounds in his words.

"He's taken him." This is all the young Prime allows from his mouthplates. It is spoken with a barely restrained anger that takes his vocals to a whole new level of low. Confusion is on both mechs' faceplates at his words and as another, more severe pain, tears into his spark Optimus' carefully constructed wall of control falls down. "He's taken Hot Rod!"

Sentinel Prime visibly flinches at his creation's rage-filled roar. Optimus swears violently and Prowl's measuring gaze goes to the incensed mech. He has never seen the Prime so ferociously maddened. To tell the truth it is rather startling.

Ultra Magnus joins his brother's ire quickly with a savageness coming to his features, "When I get my servos on that scrap for metal, pit spawned, fragging, creation of Unicron I will rip him apart!" Prowl's optic twitches and he suppresses the urge to point out that if Megatron is 'pit spawned' or a 'creation of Unicron' then that would make Magnus one also, given that they are brothers.

"No Magnus," Sentinel Prime says with a calm that is evident he does not feel. The older Prime's two creations present stare at him with angry optics; both are looking slightly horrified as he shakes his helm. "This is what Megatronus wants," Sentinel allows Megatron's old designation to slip from his lip plates. It is the designation that the grey mech had changed with his ways. "He wants us to be angry, and careless, driven by the need to save Hot Rod. He is undoubtedly using our bonds with the youngling to tease us into doing something rash."

Megatron is hurting Hot Rod to get to them?! Instead of bringing calm to Optimus' processor the information only causes the rage to build. Is Sentinel suggesting they do nothing?!

"What would you have us do?" Optimus asks his vocals forcibly more civil.

"I'm going to carve that fragging, glitch's Pit-bound spark out of his slagging, scrap of a frame!" Ultra Magnus bellows his fury that is nowhere near to being contained. The older of the two brothers is clearly in the mood for energon to be spilt. Megatron's energon to be exact.

"Ultra Magnus, we are not acting on our own. If we do not think of the repercussions of our actions many others may suffer the consequences." A pained expression works its way onto Sentinel Prime's faceplates. "We must go to Iacon and think strategically on this matter before rushing into action. As a family with such power we must consider…" Sentinel's vocals falter slightly before he continues, "all other courses of action that may be more beneficial to Cybertron."

Optimus Prime's engine sputters. His father has just made it crystal clear that it is a serious reality that they may not even attempt to rescue Hot Rod. For the good of Cybertron his father is willing to lose his youngest son's spark. The unspoken words of 'this is the sacrifices a Prime must make' rings through Optimus' processor loud and clear, with no doubt this is what Sentinel is thinking of.

"We will go to Iacon and work out a tactical solution to our current problem," Sentinel says resolutely with no emotion in is vocals. The senior Prime has made his decision but his two creations are not too pleased with it. Ultra Magnus looks ready to tear someone a new aft pipe as he stands there his vents heaving in anger. It is going to be quite some time before the mech calms. He growls lowly under the sounds of his engine's own indignant noise.

"What of Metropolis?" Optimus asks with more composure starting to fill his frame.

Sentinel glances toward the masses of offlined warriors, snipers, seekers, and grounders alike. His blue optics take in the sight of Elita1 and Chromia standing forlorn among the wreckages. He watches as the medics and remaining Autobots comb through the carnage with a vain hope of finding one online. With a sigh he directs his gaze back toward the strong, young Prime that is his son.

"The citizens will be moved to other cities with escorts if they wish, but the army I want pulled out and stationed in Iacon before the dawning of this solar cycle_(1 earth day)_. The Decepticons are too powerful in this section of Cybertron and the time to retreat from this city has long been upon us. It is a miracle from Primus himself that it managed to stay out of Megatron's clutches for this long," there is a long, awful silence before Sentinel says with slight a downfall in his vocals, "the cause of Metropolis is finished."

YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

_Yeah, this one is a bit of a downer too. Sorry. Anyway more updating to come in the next weeks! Yay! I will try to update every week around Monday or Tuesday, but I have school to do and it is sucking a lot of inspiration out of me. Just a warning in case I run behind. Please review! It makes me happy!_

_P.S. An imaginary high-five to the person who can figure out who this nameless crazy seeker is! I mean if anyone makes it this far without nodding off from immense boredom. _

_More high-fives to the ones who already guessed who the traitor is! _


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I OWN TRANSFORMERS!... hehe I almost was able to write that with a straight face... anyway if you don't already know by now, I don't own TF and I never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever will... :'(**

_First off I want to say thank you so much Nightshade for reviewing so consistently. It has given me more inspiration than you know... (I was in Kohl's when I saw your last ones and I started dancing in the men's clothing section... I was happy... mom was embarrassed... but I was happy...)_

_Also to everyone who might make it this far in reading, I am trying to think up of a new name for the whole shebang. Beginnings is just a little too vague and unoriginal. So if you like naming stories and you come up with something that sounds descent to your audios then by all means throw it my way._

_Another thing, please when you read my story, if you think that sombot is acting out of character a bit let me know. It might be an honest mistake or I might be intentionally doing it with a future plot twist waiting in the background._

**Chapter Four**

Defeat.

That is the only word that can describe the mech and femmes that survived the battle that some are already referring to as the 'Metropolian Massacre'.

All of the citizens came out of hiding in its aftermath to look in horror at what their troops sacrificed to save their sparks. The grey frames of the offlined were a terrifying sight to these bots that had never went through an actual battle themselves. Optimus could swear as they had been clearing the supplies from the city that he heard metal clattering as the citizens shook in fright.

Families of bots huddled together, trying to shield younglings and sparklings from seeing the terrors of war. Elita1 and Chromia themselves were reunited with their young sister Optimus heard them call Arcee. The poor dark blue femmeling was outright keening in relief when she found that both of her siblings made it out of the battle alive when there was reported to be only twenty-three survivors of the city's troops.

Most of the bots living in the city had opted for going to Tyger Pax, one of the largest neutral cities of Cybertron. Even though it is a sympathizer to the Autobot cause, it will allow small numbers of Decepticons to enter its gates. Alpha Trion, the protector of the large city gave his consent to live in Tyger Pax for the citizens that wished to do so. Most of them did. Only a small number went to Praxus and an even smaller figure joined the Metropolian and Iaconic troops in going to Iacon.

Metropolis was swept through when the citizens were cleared. Anything that had value or a use was taken, least it fall into Decepticon servos. The city itself was left abandoned, an empty shell void of life with in. The base where the troops had been stationed was blown so that the military quarters would be of no use to Megatron. Metropolis was an uninhibited city awaiting the occupation of the Decepticon's forces.

The femme Commander, Elita1 was angry when she learnt of the older Prime's decision. Optimus can replay vividly her wrath when she found out that Sentinel wanted to leave the city.

"Leave Metropolis?" He remembers her voice cold and angry.

His father had replied his own patience wearing thin, "Metropolis is only a liability. Iacon cannot keep successively running for your liberation. We have lost a great amount of troops this lunar cycle; that could have been avoided if you had called the abandonment of the city yourself cycles _(days)_ ago."

Optimus had actually been shocked that his father accused the pink femme so cruelly. His optics had gone to her and had seen her anger and pain behind its hidden façade. Her guilt was present again, lingering across her regal faceplates.

He had also been surprised when she had spoken out again against his creator, "So you would have us leave the city that so many offlined for? What then did my troops fight for those long solar cycles _(1 solar cycle= 1 earth day)_ when Starscream beleaguered our gateways from genesis to twilight? What did they give their sparks for, Sentinel Prime?" Her even tone had bravely held back a major portion of the passion that she felt.

"Your city is a cesspit. Metropolis, if it remains occupied by Autobots, will only drain our resources and armies unnecessarily. You will pack your personal possessions, Commander, and you will evacuate this place immediately. Understand, fembot, that that was an order." Sentinel Prime's vocals had been cold, leaving no more room for argument. His final statement had made it impossible for her to do anything for her city, besides leave, without disobeying him directly.

The femme glared at Sentinel before withering gaze had traveled to Optimus. The younger Prime had watched her with optics carefully void of emotion, hoping that no one could see his own displeasure. While he approved his creator's thoughts that Metropolis was taking a lot of resources to maintain and that it was a wise decision to abandon it, he couldn't agree with how his father handled the situation.

Even now as Elita1 and her sisters are in Iacon, the femme hasn't uttered a word to betray her feelings again. She is obviously angry. Her warriors fought and offlined for the city that Sentinel Prime deemed as a waste of time. Someone has shown them their quarters, and the pink femme hasn't come out of them since.

Optimus is slightly worried about her. She seems like a delicate organic flower in the middle of an electric storm to him. Every time he sees her a protective feeling creeps over him before he can stop it. Not only protectiveness wars in his spark, but also possessiveness when he saw other mechs around her. These new feelings confuse the young Prime immensely. He wonders to himself if he should perhaps check in on her and her sisters and in the end he decides to.

As he approaches the sisters' combined living quarters a nervousness begins in his gears. What would he do? What would he say? 'Oh, Primus, sorry about your troops and your city, it's a real shame about them both?' As Optimus stands outside of the closed entrance he fidgets. He probably should just go to the Tactical Office to help his father reorganize after the chaos his brother Megatron caused and let the fembot stay in her chambers in peace.

Prime huffs loudly with aggravation at himself and his own foolishness before he turns to leave the premises without him knocking on the femme's door. As he is turning to depart though, the door opens quickly and Elita1 steps out. When she sees him she looks away quickly and wipes at her wet optics with the back of her servo. The femme appears to be ashamed that Optimus has seen her tears.

With a final sniff Elita gains her composure and meets the Prime's electric blue optics, "Can I help you?" Her tone is highly formal and Optimus can tell she is still not happy about having to leave her city. Her regal pink helm is lifted quite proudly and her previous battle wounds only serve to give her a fierce air. She is beautiful, Optimus decides with a blink of his optics, beautiful and strong. Elita's optics narrow as she waits for the Prime's delayed answer.

"Ah, yes. I came to make sure that your quarters are to your liking," Optimus mentally kicks himself for his single-byte processored recovery. That was literally the stupidest thing he has ever said in his life.

"They are fine, thank you," Elita's answer is cool and she watches the Prime like she would a nemesis. She more than likely thinks he could've swayed his creator's mind on the matter of Metropolis.

Optimus considers leaving then. She obviously doesn't want to talk to him and is doing so just out of politeness. He nods his helm to her in a tight good-bye and whirls on his pede to leave her to herself as she clearly wants. As he is walking away though, he stops and, against his own will, his frame turns halfway to look at Elita. She is watching him with evaluating optics that hold no liking for him.

"Are you…" Optimus' processor strains itself to think of what to say after he so dumbly turned around again. Why didn't he just keep going? He is making the biggest idibot out of himself right now. "Are you... alright?" He wishes he could dig a hole through the floor of the base and straight to the center of the planet. Are you alright? That is basically what he had wanted to ask her when he sought her out, but it has left his mouthplates all wrong.

Much to Optimus' surprise a quivering smile comes to Elita1's lip plates, "No, but I will be."

"Would you like me to escort you to the rec room?" How much more idiotic could he get?

She merely nods her helm and wipes her optics again from the moisture that had begun to gather there once more. Something tells the Prime that she had been heading there when she came out, but she suddenly didn't want to go there alone. Optimus gestures his servo in the direction of the rec room and she begins walking. Allowing the femme to pick the pace Optimus falls in step beside her. He is struck suddenly by how small she is standing beside him. She barely comes to his chest plating! An even stronger protectiveness than before flashes though his wires as he watches her.

As the pair enters the rec room, Optimus notes that the rush of bots that are usually here when the solar cycle_ (1 earth day)_ dawns have already passed and there is only a few sitting here and there at tables. He notices that Elita1 looks relieved at this fact and decides she probably wasn't in the mood for talking. So when the femme orders herself a regular energon cube from the bot on ration duty and sits at a corner table with him, the Prime keeps to himself.

Optimus Prime only watches her as she carefully sips at her energon. It is hard for him to believe that this is the femme that he heard stories about. Elita1 was known in every city as one of the bravest fembot warriors ever to hold a weapon. The tales of how she had taken over the command at Metropolis after Galania Prime was offlined and continuously thwarted the S.I.C. Starscream was known far and wide throughout Cybertron. Yet, as Optimus looks at this young pink femme, he finds the bot from the tales hard to reconcile with the one sitting across from him.

She just seems so fragile at this moment, like anything harsh would break her. The Commander he had heard of was a fierce and ruthless combatant that only showed mercy to the weak and defenseless. Elita's optics meet his own and Optimus' cooling fans kick in as his core heats up in awkwardness at being caught observing her.

"Tell me something, Optimus Prime," her majestic vocals startle him, "why did you not speak to Sentinel Prime on Metropolis' behalf when he made the decision to remove us from the city?" Her question lingers in the air between them.

Optimus sits fractionally straighter in his seat, "I am afraid I do not understand."

"You had planned to send a squadron of mechs to guard the city while I rebuilt my troops. And I want to know why you didn't make mention of this to Sentinel Prime?" Oh, so that is what this is about.

Optimus furrows his optic ridge slightly before answering her inquiry cautiously, "When Sentinel Prime spoke to me on this I must say I was against the idea of pulling out of Metropolis—"

"So why didn't you say anything?" Elita1 asks without looking one bit repentant that she had interrupted him midsentence. If anything the young Prime would say she appears on the verge of becoming angry all over again.

"Because after he had spoken his reasons I became in agreement with his decision." Silence fills the gap after Optimus' baritone vocals with a loudness that screams in his audios like a slowly offlining flight drone. The femme's optics are flashing at his response and he can tell her ill feelings are now being aimed at him. Optimus speaks again, feeling the need to explain himself to this femme, "I did not contest his decision because it was one that I should have thought of immediately after the battle myself. My silence wasn't a fear to speak it was accordance to his plan."

Elita1's anger is showing visibly on her trembling frame now, her servo grips her energon toightly, "Do you know how many mechs and femmes gave their sparks for that city? And now we've just abandoned it and we've let their sacrifice mean nothing. My troops offlined for nothing. I lead them to their demise… for nothing." Her vocals are biting by the time she is finished speaking. Her anger is fixed on him now; there is no doubt in his processor as he gazes calmly back into her blue optics.

"Elita1," he begins his vocal processor starting as softly as he can make them.

"Don't speak to me like I am a sparkling, Optimus Prime!" Her words are hissed out in a controlled rage at her troop's mass offlining. He really doesn't want to be harsh with her but she is being rather immature and accusing. It is not something he likes to see.

"All right then," he says his voice low and without emotion, "I am in agreement with Sentinel Prime. Metropolis is a waste of time and resources. The Decepticons have conquered the area around it and you have been waging a losing war for months now. No matter how many warriors you recruited, no matter how many snipers you acquired, Starscream would have eventually beaten you. He would have torn down the walls, killed all the bots on the inside and he would have occupied it by force. He would have taken—"

"Well, I guess you don't know that do you? Seeing as you gave up on the city so easily."

Optimus' own temper heats slightly at her accusation. She had to know deep down inside that he is right. She is taking her own anger and sorrow out on him because she feels like maybe he could have helped her keep her city alive.

"Face it Elita1," Optimus' vocals now also hold a slight edge to them, "the only reasons you had to stay are personal ones." A look of raw fury crosses the pink femme's faceplates at the young Prime's words. "Before you speak, fembot, allow me this. How many more would have you sacrificed for that cause that you knew was lost? How many more Autobots would have had to offline before you relented your own stubbornness?"

Elita1 rises suddenly, "Thank you, Prime, for bringing me here," her words are stiff, "If you will excuse me I think I shall return to my quarters." Without looking at the red and blue mech again Elita storms out of the rec room. Her pede falls clip angrily with every step, indicating to anyone in her way to move quickly.

Optimus Prime glances at her empty seat and notices that the cube has had been sipping on is gone. She has needed to refuel because her wounds have left her frame drained. At least, even in her anger, she took the rest of her energon cube with her. Optimus checks his internal chronometer and vents, it is still a few breems _(1 breem= 8.3 earth min.)_ before he is supposed to go to the Tactical Office for counsel with his father, Ultra Magnus, Quick-plot, Piston, Ironhide, Red Alert the Head of Security, and Sonic-blaster.

It won't hurt to go early.

Optimus stands slowly, feeling suddenly way too old for how young he is. As he turns and leaves the rec room he thinks over the previous conversation. Perhaps he should apologize; he had been a little harsh with her. He blames it silently on his own anger at Megatron. His youngest brother's absence has been weighing on his processor a lot. How could it not though, with the constant waves of pain and fear the bond was transporting from Hot Rod to Optimus?

Optimus grimaces as a particularly strong pain hits him solidly in the spark. He is growing only slightly better at hiding the distress the emotions are placing on him. Not many bots know of Hot Rod's absence yet, and Sentinel wishes to keep it that way until they have come up with a solution for the problem.

As the young Prime walks steadily down the halls of the Iacon base he tries to send some security through the bond to his brother. Just as the many times he's tried before, Hot Rod's fear pushes away the comfort. His co-creation doesn't want to be consoled, he wants to be rescued. Frustration pulses through Optimus' frame as his sibling's fear grows into an outright terror. Pain begins slashing through the bond's ties again, and Optimus grits his denta. Whatever Megatron is doing to their youngest sibling Optimus prays it visits back on him tenfold.

o`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`o

Prowl runs over the old information again in the Tactical Office for exactly the five hundred and seventy-third time. Still nothing new shows up in his observations. He vents and runs a weary servo over his faceplates and begins searching through the data stored in his processor once more.

It is his fault that Sentinel Prime's youngest creation has been taken from this very base. He can feel it buried deep in his guilt-ridden gears. He miscalculated somewhere. Somehow he made a wrong judgment and didn't notice it when he checked his work. Somehow he overlooked the fact that Megatron was using the attack on Metropolis to draw them out so that the sick Decepticon could come here.

His processor spins wildly as he runs over more variables. He carefully evaluates every byte of info again before venting in aggravation. Once more, nothing new shows up. Maybe he is overanalyzing the problem. Prowl shoves all the information back and starts up from scratch. He has started completely over one hundred and sixty-six times in all. Nothing new shows up in the reorganization of the variables, instead the tactician only succeeds in confusing himself.

The Praxian's doorwings droop fractionally with disappointment in himself. Quick-Plot probably knows what he did wrong, but the older tactician is in the Med Bay having his cranial unite injury treated. Apparently Megatron had thrown the youngling Springer across the room and slammed Quick-Plot into the wall headfirst when the tactician had tried to intervene.

Springer himself is in Med Bay with multiple fractures on his faceplates, where the Decepticon had backhanded him, and his shoulder, where he had hit the wall. The youngling had awakened from stasis in shock and blubbering pathetically for someone to help Hot Rod. The C.M.O. Ratchet had given the poor bot some stasis inducing injections that calmed him immediately.

Someone enters the Tactical Office and Prowl nearly growls verbally at the disturbance. He turns to glower at the intruding bot and almost swallows his glossa when he realizes it is Optimus Prime. The red and blue mech's faceplates look troubled, but turn curious when he sees Prowl's stupor. The doorwinger recovers so quickly from his initial surprise that the Prime might've just imagined it.

"Prowl," the Prime greets him formally, but remains by the entrance of the office.

The Praxian only nods back an acknowledgement to Optimus. He really wishes that the Prime wouldn't have come right now. Prowl's own guilt is making his emotional core slightly unstable and the tiniest misbalance of his logic could send him crashing to the floor in a heap.

"I hope I am not interrupting you," Optimus says in the presence of the doorwinged mech's silence. Prowl blinks his optics and resists the urge to tell the Prime that, yes he was interrupting, and the Praxian didn't appreciate it.

"No." This is the only word he allows. He really didn't want to encourage Optimus to stay any longer than what is necessary. The young Prime's optic ridge furrow slightly and Prowl realizes with a sudden start how rude he sounded. "What brings you to the Tactical Office?" Optimus Prime's faceplates show such a sudden relief in having someone to talk to that the black and white doorwinger suddenly feels bad for wishing the mech would leave.

"Father is having a counsel about the current situation we have found ourselves in with Megatron. He requested that, Ultra Magnus, Quick-plot, Piston, Ironhide, Red Alert, his S.I.C. Sonic-blaster, and myself that we would be present here," the Prime is silent for a moment. His electric blue optics observe the rigidly standing mech in front of him before he speaks again, "May I request, Tactician Prowl that you would remain here when the others arrive?"

Prowl's doorwings twitch involuntarily with astonishment. Did his audios serve him correctly? Did the Prime just ask him to be at the meeting with Sentinel Prime? He should refuse, because the last time that he gave the young Prime advice it turned disastrous. They lost many mechs and Optimus' own brother was stolen from the base where they would have been at if Prowl had kept his mouthplates closed. Would it be in his place to refuse? If Optimus Prime requested his presence would it be disobeying to say no?

Carefully Prowl answers the waiting mech with his helm bent downward, "Would it be wise for me to be here, given the outcome of my last tactical advice?"

Prime is silent. Good, maybe he has realized that it would be foolish to have Prowl at the counsel. Perhaps he has remembered the catastrophic turnout of the last time the doorwinged tactician had been present. Prowl doesn't lift his helm to look at Optimus, too ashamed by his previous failure to do so.

"Prowl," the young Prime's vocals are stern and his tone makes the tactical mech think he is about to be chastised. The Praxian's doorwings lower slightly in submission to whatever Optimus' punishment for him might be. "What happened to my brother…" the Prime's words dwindle off.

"I accept whatever discipline you deem as necessary for my oversight, Prime." Prowl's helm and doorwings lower even more. The Prime is silent, probably thinking up the harshest punishment that he can get away with placing upon Prowl. Not that the Praxian would blame him. The silence goes unchallenged for an extended period of time before Optimus clears his throat pipes.

"Prowl, it is not…" the Prime's vocals seem slightly astonished and he appears to be searching for the right words in the quietness, "I do not blame you." The Praxian's helm snaps up to look in bewilderment at Optimus. "You did your duty well, and you did it to the extent of your ability. I will not find fault with you for that."

"But… if I would not have advised that you aid Metropolis then—"

"The whole city would have perished," Optimus interrupts him without remorse.

Prowl shakes his helm, "That still doesn't change the fact that I should have seen that Megatron was going to try something."

Optimus Prime looks thoughtful before he replies, "In looking over all the information again, like I am sure you have been. Did you find anything that would lead you to believe that you would have chosen differently if you had the chance?"

No. No he hadn't. Prowl shakes his cranial unite in a silent answer to the waiting mech. Every time he has looked over the variables he arrives at the same conclusion. All the information continues to lead him right to his first decision. Prowl suddenly wishes that he would have just kept his mouthplates shut when Optimus had come to Quick-plot for advice. Quick-plot would have done a much better job than he.

The mech in Prowl's thoughts enters the Tactical Office suddenly. Quick-plot glances at Prowl and then nods respectfully at Optimus. Prime returns the gesture, then his gaze travels back to Prowl.

"It would please me greatly if you would stay," with those words said the Prime turns to Quick-plot and the other mechs that Sentinel Prime had called to the office as they arrive. Prowl considers leaving now while Optimus wouldn't realize but doesn't get a chance when the young Prime in question looks at him. Optimus jerks his helm in a motion for Prowl to come and the Praxian obeys immediately, so much for him sneaking out unnoticed.

"I trust all of you know why we are here today," Sentinel Prime begins as he is turned away from them and is staring at the base's communication computers. "Megatron has become braver. He has snuck into this very base. He was in this very room and he has taken my youngest creation." The older Prime pauses and turns on his heel before continuing while looking at the eight other Autobots present, "We are here today to determine the wisest course of action to take concerning the young Hot Rod."

Prowl can hear when Sentinel detaches himself from father-mode and takes on the thinking of a Prime. There is going to be no rash decisions made here today by him. He is going to make the choice based on what is best for all of Cybertron.

"Shouldn't Blaster be here?" Red Alert asks quickly as he surveys the small group of mechs and does not see the Autobots' Communications Officer present.

Sonic-blaster answers for Sentinel, "He is debriefing the Metropolian survivors that came to the base... the ones that are functional enough to speak, that is." The H.O.S. bot merely nods in acknowledgement, his suspicions now laid to rest.

"I will now hear everyone's thoughts on the matter at hand," Sentinel says gravely drawing the attention back to the ensuing problem.

The first to speak is Ultra Magnus, "I think we should attack Kaon, break down Megatron's door and take the youngling back." Even in the mech's neutral tone Prowl can tell he is speaking purely from an emotional standpoint. Secretly the Praxian hopes that Magnus' advice is unheeded. His wish is granted immediately.

"No," this is Optimus, much to everyone's surprise, "Brother, you are thinking strictly as a sibling to the hostage. It would not be sensible to attack the Decepticon capitol."

Ultra Magnus' faceplates cloud over with a visible anger again, but he nods his helm, "What then would you do, Optimus?"

"A trade, if anything, would be wiser."

Sentinel Prime nods thoughtfully and rubs his finger digits on is chin plating with a hum.

"What would we trade?" This question comes from Sonic-blaster and it puts a damper on the idea. If they contacted Megatron and proposed a trade they would be allowing him to name the conditions. That could turn out disastrous.

Red Alert suddenly speaks up with his faceplates angry and his vocals growling, "How did he even get in?!" Prowl can tell that the paranoid mech is more bothered that the Decepticon managed to get through security than the fact that Hot Rod is gone. That is just the type of bot he is. He is worried that since one Decepticon got through that maybe it's possible for a swarm to get in also.

As Prowl thinks about the security bot's question the more suspicious he gets. How did Megatron get in? The other Autobots are conversing among themselves again, but Prowl ignores them. He may be onto something! With this thought the doorwinger's processor goes on overdrive.

Optimus Prime decided to go to Metropolis and left half of his army here to guard Iacon in case Starscream came here instead. Prowl is sure that with the risk of an attack so imminent the paranoid H.O.S., Red Alert would have doubled, or even tripled security. There should have been at least five Autobot guards at every gate. According to the report there were only two slain on the western gate. Where were the other three? Did they run? Prowl highly doubts it, Autobot warriors are skilled mechs and femmes that would never flee from a Decepticon invading their city. Did they leave early? No, the bots at the base were trained to never leave until your shift was over unless it was a personal emergency.

_They never showed up. _Prowl's processor forces the unpleasant idea to his attention. _Why though, would they not. They would be on the guard schedule that Red Alert no doubt had set up. If they were on the list they would have had to show up right? Yes, they would have to. Unless something came up that they were called to a different assignment._

_Unless __someone__ called them to a different assignment,_ Prowl frowns at his line of thinking. _There would have been at least five guards on the western entrance. Only two of them were there, the other three must've been called away before they assumed their post, because they are not allowed to leave their station once they are there until their shift is up. The three would have had to be replaced with other bots, but there would have been a delay until the replacements got there. Only one breem _(1 breem= 8.3 earth min.)_ of a delay at most, but somehow Megatron knew it and offlined the two guards that were on duty._ Prowl's helm begins to ache in protest to his whirling thoughts. _How did Megatron know that? He could have been waiting at the gate perhaps, but he would have never been able to guess on his own that there was going to be a window big enough for him to slip in undetected._

_Not only that, but how did he get out? After the new guards showed up and they found the frames of the offlined they informed Red Alert and he tripled the security. He had to have another way already planned for his escape. He came in here knowing that the guards were going to be added on duty when the two offlined mechs were found. He came in here with full confidence that he would be able to get back out with no problem. If that is the case then there could be only one possible explanation._ Prowl's emotional core fires up and his engine stutters slightly as the conclusion pops into his processor before he can stop it.

_He has someone on the inside._

Prowl's cooling fans kick on as his core temperature rises in anger. That really could be the only probable assumption. There is no way around it. _He has an Autobot on the inside. Not just any Autobot either, it would have to be one with power. Like one in this very room._

The doorwinged mech's optics flick to each one in assessment of their loyalties and authority, his cooling systems are turned on high as his rage builds. _Sentinel Prime. He was not in Iacon. He could have commed, no that would have made it too obvious. Probability of Sentinel being the traitor: 17.210%._ With that Prowl pushes away the idea that Sentinel Prime is the collaborator with a great relief._ That would rule out Ultra Magnus as well with only a 16.009%. Optimus Prime._ The tactician feels guilty even considering this possibility. _He might have been able to tamper with the guard schedule before he left for Metropolis. No. Red Alert checks that list almost fifteen times a day._ Prowl is not exaggerating this fact._ Optimus as the traitor is only at 10.049%. Sonic-blaster? No. The only way he would have been able to pull this off is if he was here, and he was with Optimus Prime. The S.I.C.: 20.820%. Ironhide?_ Prowl feels quite foolish for even considering the weapons specialist as the turncoat. The mech made no secret about his deep, undying hate for the Decepticons, particularly Megatron. _He could have been putting on a front. No, even if he was just pretending he also would have had to be at the base to be able to let the warlord in. 5.999%. Piston would not even have the authority to change the guards' assignment._

_Red Alert? 0.047%. _It was stupid for Prowl even to consider Red Alert. Maybe he should head to the Med Bay and get his processor checked. Prowl shakes his helm in frustration before settling his gaze on the only bot left. Instantly his spark pulse quickens. This could be the one. The tactician's processor runs faster as he analyzes the probability.

_He was here. He would have the authority to call bots away for a different duty. This would also explain how Megatron escaped under their optics without being detected. He has the authority to open the ground bridge._

Prowl's anger builds as he considers the facts his processor laid before him. His emotional core begins to take hold of his thinking and he glances at the mech in question who is giving Sentinel some slag filled advice on what to do.

The Praxian doorwinger's optics flits quickly and thoroughly over the black and grey mech's 'injuries' in assessment. _Minor injuries to the cranial unit and nothing else to suggest he had recently fought._ Prowl's gaze travels heatedly to where Megatron supposedly slammed the mech's helm against the wall. There are indeed paint flakes on the hard surface from the bot's helm there. _But where are his other injuries?_ When Megatron had hit Springer, the mechling's whole faceplate had almost been shattered. _So apparently Megatron attacked a youngling with more force than he did a full grown mech._

Prowl frowns at the sarcasm that shows up in his logic. That is never a good sign. Sarcasm takes a certain amount of logic and an even larger amount of emotion for him to process. His emotional core is taking control of his thinking. The Praxian tries to force his emotional core into submission, but only succeeds in quieting it fractionally._ I will finish my calculations!_ Prowl's fervent anger is another bad sign so he charges into the tactical equations.

_Paint on thewallis consistent with injury onhelm. No other damages presentonthe mech's frame. Megatron must have been very gentle. Focus! The helminjuryisquiteminor and still itmanaged to leave the mech instasisforsometime. There areno otherdamagestosuggest that hewas handledroughlyin any way. Logical hypothesis would bethatthemech musthaveslammed himselfintothewalltoavoid suspicion. _Prowl finishes his analysis in desperation, his thoughts running together as his emotional core takes over and his anger overwhelms him. His optics flicker off as his logic systems crash defensively against the rage that tears at him. The tactician's balance fails him. He teeters forward on his pedes, and as the glitch takes hold there is only one thought left in his processor.

_Conclusion reached: Quick-plot, 98.966%.Traitor detected._

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_**O-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-**

_Oh No! Prowl has crashed! And he has discovered the identity of the traitorous bot who dares to wear and tarnish the Autobot faction insignia! O MY WORD! Quick-plot you are an aft pipe! _

_Anyway, I just want to let everyone know that my characters run over me and do as they please... I am not responsible for their actions. Read and Review! lol_


	5. Chapter 5

**_Disclaimer: Still don't own the Transformers... unless I could buy them for about, hang on let me check my pockets... Five bucks?_**

_Update day! Woot, woot! ^,,^ Hopefully those who make it this far in reading and actually like my story, no matter how little, won't be disappointed. O.O It makes me nervous when I update and no one reviews...(hint, hint) he,he,he..._

_Okay, I still haven't gotten any new story name suggestions, so if anyone does have a name feel free to throw it at me. (figuratively... not literally...) Really, how would you actually throw a name? Also a question that has been bothering me (it is my friend's fault, she brought it up) but,... Do spiders have hearts? And do penguins have knees? And is a snake actually a body, or just a tail with a face?_

_Sorry, just had to get that out of my system. Please read and review?! :D _

**Chapter Five**

Optimus nods thoughtfully in consideration to Quick-plot's plan. It made sense that Megatron had a specific thing in processor that he wanted in return for Hot Rod. But should they give it to the grey Decepticon mech? Would it turn out a greater price than they could pay?

The red and blue mech glances at Sentinel Prime to try and decipher his creator's thoughts. There is a troubled look on the elder of the two primes, and Optimus fears that Sentinel has already made his decision on this case. As Quick-plot goes on through the possible things Megatron may have his optics on Optimus realizes that his father is being silent because he knows his two creations present won't agree with the decision.

A loud pop catches the room's attention. The noise is followed by a rapid double click and Optimus turns toward the ruckus just in time to see Prowl's optics go dim. The Praxian's whole frame turns rigid and the mech topples forward to land unforgivingly on his faceplates.

"What the…" Ultra Magnus starts at the loud crash.

What happened to him?! Concern fills Optimus Prime as he turns fully toward the downed bot. Optimus goes on one knee to check the mech's output signs. Everything seems normal. Prime looks him over and notices the doorwinger's optics flickering on and off consistently.

Optimus can hear his father behind him calmly giving orders in light of the fallen mech, "Ironhide, comm Ratchet and tell him to come to the Tactical Office immediately." Ironhide's faceplates grow distant as the large black Autobot contacts the C.M.O.

"He's on his way," Ironhide states gruffly looking at the black and white doorwinger curiously.

Quick-plot snorts, "He's a typical glitch case, is what he is." The older tactician seems annoyed.

"Has this happened before?" Optimus asks the H.T. bot. Quick-plot just nods and appears uncaring. Piston, the older tactician's S.I.C. of the Tactical Office, has his optic ridge furrowed in only mild concern for the Praxian.

Ratchet comes running into the Tactical Office vents heaving, "What is the emergency?" He looks at each mech in the faceplates, then toward Optimus who is still kneeling on the floor. The medic's blue optics land on the unmoving doorwinger and his gaze narrows severely. "What is this?"

Ultra Magnus speaks up his faceplates confused but intrigued, "We were discussing certain matters and the mech just fell over."

The C.M.O.'s features morph into anger, "You brought me all the way down here because of a glitch?! I could have been in the middle of an important mechanical operation! I thought Sentinel had a spark-attack or something!" Sentinel's optic ridge rises slightly and Optimus' own concern begins to wan at the medic's indignant raging at being brought here for an apparently trivial thing.

"If it is not threatening could you please remove the mech so that we can continue?" Sentinel Prime's request makes the medic nod and move to obey since the other Autobots seem to be in agreement with the older Prime. Optimus is still beside Prowl, and Ratchet motions him to stay when he begins to rise.

"Optimus, could you help me with him?" The C.M.O. bends to peer down at the doorwinger, who is lying as stiff as a rod.

Optimus Prime tips his helm discreetly before asking, "Does it require a trip to the Med Bay?"

"No, it's not serious," the C.M.O. says roughly. "I can bring him out of it right here if you would rather not leave."

Optimus looks down where the fallen Prowl lays. He seemed like a very private mech, one that would more than likely be uncomfortable with the notion of being brought out of a glitch in the presence of so many bots. Strictly for the tactician's reputation, if nothing else makes Optimus say, "I will help you transport him."

Ratchet allows a ghost of a smile on his lip plates before he mutters, "I didn't bring anything to move a doorwinger. Would you mind if I used you as means of transporting a patient?" Optimus transforms without a word and allows the C.M.O. to load the unmoving mech onto his alt-mode. After the medic has Prowl secured, he transforms in front of Optimus and says, "Follow me."

Optimus does and realizes that they are going the long way to the Med Bay, where there are less Autobots to encounter. Prowl is more than likely a more private bot then the young Prime has previously thought. Quick-plot had said himself that the doorwinger has glitched before this, but somehow Optimus hasn't known about it. Neither has Sentinel or Ultra Magnus, or any of the other bots present except Quick-plot and Piston. The Praxian is probably not very fond of his… personality quirk.

"What is his… condition?" Optimus asks Ratchet softly.

"It's his logic glitch," the medic slows his driving to fall beside Optimus and mutters so that only the young Prime can hear. "His processor is much more advanced than what most bots' are on a tactical level and his emotional core only serves to confuse it. He can only access one of his cores at a time, the logical or the emotional. If he receives information that happens to be illogical and takes both cores to perceive, then it causes his processor to overload and it will crash. Either that or his emotional core became unbalanced while he was configuring data and he crashed as a safeguard against frying himself."

Optimus is silent for a moment before asking, "Does it make him unstable?"

"No!" The medic's answer is loud and harsh indicating that Ratchet is offended for Prowl that Optimus thought that, even for just a little while. Optimus Prime doesn't respond to the medic's outburst and they drive onward in silence for a moment before Ratchet speaks again. "I apologize, Prime. I shouldn't have spoken so rudely when answering your question."

Optimus doesn't reply. His title of Prime makes him the subject of many over polite bots that secretly speak what they think of him when his helm is turned. He is glad that Ratchet isn't one of those, but the older mech's apology made him uncomfortable. It was appropriate, but Optimus still isn't used to being of a higher rank then Autobots who used to give him checkups when he was a youngling.

Ratchet seems to take his quietness as anger with the medic's own shortness and swiftly seeks to explain the doorwinger's condition better, "What I meant was, is that Prowl's logic glitch doesn't just happen at any given time of the cycle_(day)_ whenever it feels like it. It has to be triggered by something. Most of the time he is just driven by his logical core which is why he seems so uncaring at times."

Optimus restrains a smile at the C.M.O.'s babbling, "It is alright, old friend. I understand that you would want to protect your patients in any way that you can. My enquiry was unfair towards Prowl, you reacted justly."

Ratchet's engine stutters slightly before he recovers from his shock. Sentinel would have been much less merciful then his son has just been. The older Prime would have rebuked the medic immediately following his angry reply. Optimus allowed the mech to dwell on his rudeness. The younger Prime allowed guilt to work and when Ratchet had apologized he forgave him instantly.

He is going to make a fine leader, Ratchet decides as they pull through the Med Bay doors. Optimus will be kind and reasonable when dealing with the old cranky bots like himself. He will be fair and understanding in the presence of finicky bots like Prowl. He will be commanding and unwavering around the older mechs and femmes that might challenge his authority, yet firm and calm with the rowdy Autobots that will eventually come under his command. Yes, Ratchet decides, he will be honored to serve beneath the younger mech.

Optimus remains still as Ratchet removes Prowl from the back of his alt-mode, then transforms to stand next to the medic. Instead of going back to the Tactical Office the young Prime stays. Something that the medic had said caught his attention. That bit that the doorwinger's logic glitch has to be activated by something.

"What did you mean when you said his… glitch," Optimus does not feel appropriate calling it that at all, "has to be triggered?"

Ratchet grunts as he adjusts the black and white mech onto the Praxian built berth. Carefully the medic makes sure the mech's delicate doorwings aren't being injured before turning to Optimus. The C.M.O. shrugs, "Well, something like a bit of information he can't process without both of his cores coming into play or something that he may hold a high level of emotional attachment to."

"You said earlier that this will happen when his processor becomes overloaded, or if he is trying to organize data while his emotional core is unbalanced. What do you think happened?" Optimus is suddenly getting the feeling that the mech had been standing behind him with his processors running a mega-mile a klik_(1.2 earth minutes)_. Could have he been onto something?

"I'm getting ready to bring him out of his fritz, why don't you ask him yourself when I do? It'll only take a breem_(8.3 earth minutes)_ or so." The C.M.O. busily hunches over the Praxian Autobot and Optimus waits.

The Prime's optics scans the Med Bay. It wasn't empty. Autobots that were injured at Metropolis are upon every berth available. The remaining few Decepticon's that had lived through the fight are in a separate part of the Med Bay and no doubt chained to their berths. There is medical bots scurrying everywhere between the patients, tending to their needs and their damages. Optimus glances back at Ratchet and wonders when the last time was that the medic recharged. The young Prime walks over to the Praxian's berth to watch Ratchet work.

"Optimus!" Ratchet yowls, "I can't work with you peeping over my shoulder armor like some sort of anxious cyber-cat!"

Optimus steps back quickly to give the stressed medic his space. Yes, before he leaves the Med Bay he is going to order Ratchet to go recharge or he will have one of the other medics administer a sedative to make the older bot recharge. Wordlessly he departs from Ratchet's side and looks over the Med Bay again.

Something catches the Prime's optics. It is a green ground-roller bot. A youngling.

Optimus approaches the youngling when he realizes it is Springer. The Prime's optics soften when the mechling's helm snaps up to stare at him. Springer cowers on his berth in the presence of the much larger mech.

"Do not be afraid," Optimus says softly to the youngling. He remains a short distance away from Springer so that the young bot will calm down. Springer's vents are heaving suddenly and the mechling looks about to have a panic attack. He is afraid of Prime's largeness. Probably because of his recent encounter with an evil mech of the same stature as Optimus. The Prime blinks his optics and tries to get the youngling to speak to get his processor off of his fear. "Ironhide trains you, correct?"

The green youngling nods his helm. No words, more trembling.

"How is that going?" Optimus tries to avoid any mention of Hot Rod. He heard in the reports that any mention of the designation would send Springer into hysteria. The young bot seems to have a great loyalty in his spark for the Prime's sibling.

"All right," Springer's vocals crackle when he finally speaks.

"You are learning quite a bit from him?"

The youngling nods, "Yes, Prime."

Optimus smiles at him then glances over to Ratchet to see the medic's progress. The yellow and green Autobot C.M.O. is watching with a disaster expectant expression, but starts when Optimus' optics meet his own. Ratchet turns back to Prowl showing the Prime his back once more. Optimus rejects the urge to cock his helm at that odd medical bot, instead he turns back to the youngling, trusting Ratchet to tell him when Prowl is ready to reboot.

"He has been teaching you offensive and defensive maneuvers, has he not?" Prime gets Springer's attention once more with the question.

"Y-yes," the youngling's vocals catch as he shakes. He hesitates then answers more thoroughly, "He taught me defense last time, because Hot—" Springer's words choke up. The youngling gives a pitiful keen and his vents hitch harshly as he tries to keep the liquid from his optics. "Hot Rod… w-wanted t-to learn," his optics are filling with tears now and static fills the spaces between his words, "offensi—hic m-maneuvers-s."

Well. This has gone very wrong very fast. Optimus instinctively bends down next to the berth to be at optic level with the green youngling, who is now sobbing. Looking Hot Rod in the faceplates always seemed to get the message into his processor better; Optimus hopes it works with all mechlings.

"Springer, why are you upset?" He keeps his voice neutral, careful to not sound the least bit menacing or angry. Springer sits straight up with his back plating as rigid as he can make it. His chest armor flares in an effort to cool his heated and distressed frame as a small cry leaves his lip plates. The young grounder's injuries makes Optimus' spark hurt.

He can visibly see the shape of a fist still indented into the youngling's faceplates. Megatron needs to be obliterated for this! Prime keeps his rage invisible, trying not to scare Springer. The mechling sniffles quietly in the Prime's silent presence for a time being before he even makes an attempt to reply.

"I… stssszzz… I c-couldn't—ssssss—protect h-him… f-f-from…zzzt… Meg-hic-tron," Springer's sobs barely make the sentence understandable. "I c-couldn't!" His last two words are finished with a wail that makes Ratchet start toward them from behind, tranquilizer in servo. Optimus sends a sharp glance at the C.M.O. stopping him in his tracks. If Springer continues to get sedatives for his inconsolable guilt then he would never get over it.

Optimus cautiously places an engulfing servo on the youngling's uninjured shoulder armor. He rests it there in silence as the green bot sobs. There they remain for a long while, Optimus stands silently with his helm bowed not looking at Springer.

"Springer," Prime begins very softly so that only the young bot can hear his words, "I've lost a myriad of mechs in battle." Optimus hesitates at the touchy subject he is approaching, "I've lead them to their offlining. I've failed," Prime's own vents almost hitch. He will not cry about this, he must be strong for Springer's sake. "I've failed to protect more times than I can number. Just know this, Springer, everyone will blame you if you don't try to protect them," Springer almost begins wailing again, but Optimus finishes before he can. "But no bot will ever fault you for not being able to."

A whimper sounds from the youngling as the words linger between the two Autobots. Optimus hears Ratchet clear his throat pipes and sniff loudly. He was listening, that old meddling medic. Optimus Prime lets a smile touch his lip plates as Ratchet sniffs again; apparently the gruff C.M.O. is attached to Springer as a patient since he is so young.

"Thank you, Optimus Prime," Springer's half-audible vocals manage to squeak out.

"You are welcome, Springer. Get some recharge." Optimus releases the youngling's shoulder armor and turns back to Ratchet who is watching the two with a pleased expression on his faceplates. As Optimus nears the medic shakes his helm in bewilderment.

"The only way I've ever gotten him to calm down was through sedatives."

"Is Prowl ready to reboot?" Optimus asks uncomfortable with the subject. Ratchet nods and proceeds to take the necessary steps for bring the glitched Praxian from his fritz-out. The doorwinger's optics flicker and a groan leaves his mouthplates. A feeble servo rises from the black and white mech's side and rubs the place where he had landed flat on his face.

"How are you feeling, Prowl?" Ratchet asks the confused Praxian.

"Well."

"Really?" The C.M.O. snorts in disbelief, "That is the worst lie I've heard today. And that includes by the way, a Decepticon claiming that he wants to become an Autobot. Which was almost too ridiculous to even laugh at considering he's tried to escape every time I turn my back and calls me a slagger every chance he gets."

Prowl ignores the medic's huffiness, "Did I land on my faceplates?"

"Yes." Ratchet sounds chipper in delivering this news. The Prime wonders how often this particular thing has happened in the past, more than likely, quite a number of times.

The Praxian suddenly stiffens considerably, "Quick-plot!" Prowl lunges upward into a sitting position and almost falls off the side of the berth when he sees Optimus Prime standing there.

"Are you alright, Prowl?" Optimus asks suddenly wondering if there were any side effects to the glitch out the doorwinger just had. Hopefully not.

Prowl nods curtly and slides off the side of the berth his doorwings rigid in obvious tension, "May I speak to you about an urgent matter, Prime?"

Optimus straightens and tips his helm, "Here, or elsewhere?" A frown creeps onto the tactician's faceplates and he glances at Ratchet. The C.M.O raises his optic ridge, then vents and stalks off, muttering about pernickety Praxians.

"Here will be fine," Prowl says before beginning, "As I was standing behind you I heard Red Alert ask the question as to how Megatron managed to get inside of Iacon, and after I went over the analysis of how he could have managed it, I came up with a conclusion that is rather disturbing." Optimus' attention is caught to the carefully controlled tone of the mech's vocals as he speaks. Whatever he thinks he found is probably what caused his glitch out.

"Go on," Optimus can feel an uneasiness settling within him.

"There is a traitor among us, Prime."

Optimus' spark jumps into an irregular pattern. What?! Someone betrayed them? The Prime sets his shoulder struts back and takes a deep vent that he holds in his systems for some time. That would mean that someone deliberately contacted Megatron and let him into the city. Someone allowed Megatron to take Hot Rod and injure Springer. An unfathomable rage builds up in the Prime's mainframe.

"Do you have a suspect in mind?" To his own surprise his vocals are calm. Much calmer than he ever would have thought they would be in light of news like this.

Prowl nods and his optics narrow a bit. Something like doubt flashes across the Praxian's features. Optimus knows what he is thinking. _He is afraid that his conclusion will be catastrophic. He is afraid that his decision will be wrong._ Optimus waits patiently for the brief seconds that the black and white mech hesitates.

"Yes," Prowl answers finally, "I went over all of the variables and realized that, if there is a traitor, and there most certainly is, that it will be a bot with power. He would need almost unlimited access to everything on the base." The Praxian pauses and Optimus looks at him warily, he isn't trying to point an accusing digit at the Primes or Optimus' brother, Ultra Magnus, is he? Instead of asking the young Prime listens. Prowl continues after his brief stop, "I must admit that since I am a tactical bot, I had to ruminate everyone that Sentinel called to his counsel…" another pause, "and after I had considered everyone I found one mech that has a high probability of being disloyal."

"Go on," Optimus isn't sure if he should be offended or relieved that Prowl considered everyone, including him.

"Quick-plot." Optimus draws up in his height; his shock is well masked, but is there all the same. Prowl quickly explains his findings to the Prime, "As far as I know all of my calculations are correct. The mech has access to essentially everything here in Iacon. He would have the authority to take guards off of their patrol; he knows every move we make inside and out." The Praxian's voice is blunt as he speaks his suspicions toward his mentor, "He knows what we are going to do, because he plans it himself, and he has admittance to the ground bridge."

The accusation is stacked solidly and high against Quick-plot. Optimus considers the possibility of his old friend collaborating with Megatron. He doesn't like the thought, but he knows it must be considered.

"He was attacked," Optimus points out in a challenge to see how well the doorwinger has his conclusion determined.

The doorwings flick slightly at the excuse for Quick-plot the Prime is making, "So he claims."

"You don't believe he tried to stop Megatron?"

"The youngling that Megatron harmed is laying on that berth," Prowl motions with his servo toward Springer, his vocals listless, "His faceplates are almost fractured completely as a result of a single blow. Quick-plot states he intervened after that and that Megatron confronted him and knocked his helm against the wall. Yet somehow, Springer, who was struck only once has more severe damages than Quick-plot, who claims to have tried to stop the Decepticon… why did Megatron not offline the mech like he did the guards?" Prowl's reasoning is making the truth clearer than the crystals of the Praxus gardens.

"I trust you have figured the exact probability of this?" Optimus wants to know the mech's statistics to support his hypothesis before he jumps into action.

"98.966%."

That leaves no doubt in the Prime's processor. He trusts the sharp-witted Praxian. If it were up to Optimus he would march to the Tactical Office and shoot Quick-plot in the faceplates for treason. There will have to be more evidence gained or an outright confession from Quick-plot himself, though, before Optimus will be able to do anything but detain the tactician.

The Prime nods, "I will go to the Tactical Office and have Quick-plot apprehended for further questioning. If he is guilty of what you suspect then we cannot have him running free on the base." Optimus starts off toward the Med Bay exit with Prowl beside him, and he hopes beyond hope that the tactician is wrong. What will happen if he isn't?

The Autobot faction will be sent reeling in a tailspin from shock. His father will have to quickly assign a new mech from the Office as the Head Tactician. Quick-plot will be questioned and after he is of no further use, executed for treason. With these swirling thoughts in his processor, Optimus Prime walks purposefully toward his destination.

Before he steps out of the Med Bay completely though, the Prime pauses. Glancing back he calls a certain medic's designation. Ratchet glares at Optimus with a 'this better be important' look on his hard faceplates.

"Ratchet," Optimus says to the C.M.O. in a commanding air, "get some recharge." The older mech opens his mouthplates to argue so the young Prime adds as an afterthought, "That was an order." When Optimus Prime exits the Med Bay quickly, a sub-spaced wrench flies after him and hits the doorframe with a clang.

Q^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^Q

Elita1 watches the large red and blue mech leave the Med Bay from her corner where she had breathlessly hidden when she'd seen him. Sure call it the coward's way out, but the femme is in no mood to speak to the mech so soon after their last conversation.

His words had hurt. They cut her far deeper then she had let on. She pretended to be angry; anger always covers the injury that words cause. Elita's brave and furious faceplates had lasted only to her quarter's doors, after she was safely on the other side she had wept. Elita knows now what she knew then. He was right. Her reasons to stay in Metropolis were personal ones. They were not the reasons of an evenhanded leader. She had stayed in her and her sisters' shared quarters for a long while then. Her own guilt had been too much for her to stand going out and risking meeting with the young Prime. She had cried for the first time over the loss of her many warriors then, begging their departed sparks for forgiveness for her own selfishness.

Chromia had commed her then and had informed her that the medics of the base had gotten Nova-flame stabilized from critical condition. It had been a balm to her aching spark. Immediately she had wiped her wet optics and had charged out the door toward the Med Bay. Her whole sprint there she had thanked Primus over and over again for sparing the few troops that he did. Her troops should have all been offlined, herself included, but they survived.

When she had come into the Med Bay she almost squawked in astonishment. That mech was here! Why he was there in the first place was etched on her processor from the moment that he calmed the dejected youngling to when he began speaking to that Praxian that had shouted in her audios on the battlefield. (That is still all she knows the doorwinger as.) Elita had watched him as his back plates became rigid with displeasure and he spoke to the C.M.O, Ratchet before ducking out the door to escape the accurately thrown wrench. She didn't move from her hidden place until Prime was safely out of the Med Bay's doors and far down the hall.

Only now, as she listens to the sound of Optimus Prime's and the Praxian from the battlefield's pedes echo away, does she come from her hidden place from behind a medical equipment table. Elita's vents huff in relief. She hopes that she can actively avoid Optimus for as long as possible from now on.

Ratchet notices the pink fembot standing among the medical equipment and scowls suddenly, "Do you need any repair work done, femme?"

Elita shakes her helm quickly; this medic doesn't have much patience.

"Then what in the name of Primus are you doing here?" The C.M.O.'s tone is still level but she can tell he is irritated. Elita opens her mouthplates to answer when Ratchet continues with a growl, "If you're just here to gawk at life energon pouring out of frames then remove yourself from this Med Bay immediately."

"No!" Elita denies the horrible accusation.

"Then why are you here?"

Elita blinks her optics at the surly medic, "I received word from my sister that you have gotten one of my remaining warriors stabilized. I came to check up on her condition."

Ratchet's anger diminishes slightly and his hardened optics softens almost imperceptivity. He picks up a data pad and glances at it hastily, his gaze scrolls down the long list of designations that show who all is in his Medical Bay. One of the Metropolian troops, his optics find the category and flit across the twenty-one names.

"What is the bot's designation?" Ratchet asks glancing up at Elita.

The pink femme answers him swiftly, "I can just find her myself if you could point me in the right direction of where you have my warriors berthed."

Ratchet snorts, "Fine," he turns and motions Elita to follow him. The femme commander obeys the medic quickly and falls into step behind him. They walk past the medical berth where the green youngling is laying, recharging, but still crying softly to himself. Sympathy wells up in the fembot's spark as they pass the youngling and she watches him over her shoulder armor.

Self-blame. It could tear a bot apart from the inside out. She can see it in the way he is curling in on himself protectively. He is impugning himself for something that he feels he could have prevented. Elita can relate to the mechling on a personal level. She feels that none of her warriors should be offlined, and she knows that their offlining could have been stopped by her simply ordering the city to be evacuated.

Ratchet stops and points a finger digit toward a terribly pitiful line up of her once lively warriors. They are each lying on a separate berth of their own with enough room between the berths for a medic to stand if need be. The quarters in the Med Bay are much more crowded than they should be since the 'Metropolian Massacre'.

Elita suddenly becomes sympathetic toward the gruff medic that is pointing her to what little remains of her troops. Who knows how long the poor mech has been up, slaving away over the frames of half-offlined bots. Many of his efforts were probably in vain. Many of the barely functioning bots that were brought to the Med Bay were more than likely lost causes. Elita, knowing that a medic's coding ran deep through their wires, figures that Ratchet probably attempted to save even the ones furthest gone.

"There are your warriors," Ratchet says a hint of respect lining his vocals at the brave bots' willingness to offline for their cause, even though it was long lost. Elita nods her helm and gives a small smile to the medbot before making her way through the stasis induced silence. "Femme?" The medic's voice stops her and she turns to looks at him with questioning optics. "I'm really sorry that I couldn't save more of them." With that said the C.M.O. saunters off toward the green youngling that began to sob aloud in his recharge.

The medic is also ridden with guilt, and he shouldn't be. He has done everything thinkable to help those that were wounded. He's done everything he could to keep as many online as possible. Unlike her.

Elita's spark clenches in her sudden penitence. With her optics threatening to fill with tears for the fourth or fifth time this cycle, the femme turns to her warriors. This lineup is so different from the last one. No longer are they standing tall and proud before her, they are laying, barely functioning on what might still be the offlining berth for some.

The pink femme's optics flit across her warriors and land decisively on the light green, battered frame of Nova-flame. Elita approaches the young fembot and lets her gaze travel the whole length of her. Worried optics take in the femme warrior's damages. Ratchet has done a fine job repairing the huge gaping hole that a blasted Con had shot through her. The wound itself is now reduced to a mere arachnid web of weld marks that looks tender to the touch. Elita calmly reminds herself that Nova-flame is stabilized and that there is no need to be anxious. Still a hint of concern flows through her as she stares down at the young bot lying on the hard medical berth.

Nova-flame shouldn't even be here in the Med Bay. Elita reaches her servo out and strokes the femme's arm plating with cautiousness as the guilt begins to cloud into her processor once more. Nova-flame should be functioning; she should be in a different city with all her friends the young warrior had easily made from the Metropolian troops. If Elita had evacuated the city like Prime had mentioned then that is exactly where the fembot would be right now.

"Commander Elita1?" A weak vocal processor sounds next to her side and the femme jumps with a start. Her blue optics quickly pinpoint the location of the voice. It is a blue and white mech lying prone on a berth next to Nova-flame. He looks like he's been through the Pit. Elita recognizes the mech's dented and dried energon stained faceplates. Striker.

"Yes?" The fembot commander turns to face him fully.

The injured mech manages a slight smile, "She's going to be fine. I was—" Striker's vocals stutter for a moment and he winces visibly as he shifts his weight to better see his commander. "I was keeping an optic on her."

A warm feeling spreads through Elita1's spark as the mech's words register to her. It was well known at the base in Metropolis that Striker looked after Nova-flame like she was his little sister. They were always together, whether in the heat of battle or just an easy patrol.

"Have they been taking care of her?" Elita asks just to humor the mech.

Striker lets out a short pained snort, "You would think that I'm not even injured how little attention I get compared to her." Elita's optics dart unwittingly toward the mech's chassis where she had seen him get stabbed on the battlefield. A thin line of metal juts out further than the rest of Striker's armor showing clearly the weld mark where the medics had closed up the terrible wound. He had been protecting Nova-flame. Elita quickly looks away from the accusing damages that litter the blue and white mech's frame, guilt filling her.

"You're feeling okay?" Elita questions trying to hide her self-blame from the warrior.

Striker's optics narrow, "Yeah, I guess I'm a lucky mech."

The pink femme allows a fleeting smile to be forced onto her lip plates, "Yes, well I will be back later to check up on you and Nova-flame again. Let me know if she comes out of stasis?" Striker nods and Elita turns swiftly and begins to walk away. She cannot stay any longer with the remorse pushing so harshly against her chassis with suffocating weight. She has to get out of the Med Bay.

"Commander?"  
Striker calls to her from his berth and Elita freezes in her tracks. She doesn't turn around, she can't. If she does she will break down in front of everyone and cry. If she catches one more glimpse of her half-dismantled warriors she is going to go insane with guilt. With her back strut rigid, the femme waits for the mech to say what he wished to. When the words resonate in the air and sound in her audios the femme almost collapses. Her spark throbs with anguish and in sorrow. Elita doesn't acknowledge the young mech's words, choosing instead to rapidly exit the Med Bay before she could fall to the ground and start sobbing pathetically. When she reaches the door leading out of the Med Bay she shoves it open and begins walking, her pede-falls click deafeningly in her processor, but she ignores it. The only thing in her thoughts right now is Striker's words. In those simple sentences he has lifted her guilt to a bearable level. In just a few words he eased, no matter how fractionally, her tormented conscience. It rings solidly and soundly in her processor as she tries, nearly in vain, to keep her tears from falling.

"I just want you to know that even though it turned out like this, even though our friends are offlined, I'm laid up and Nova-flame is hanging on by a cord. I'm glad that I could serve under you, and I'd do it again."

*w*w*w*w*w*w*w*w*w*

_Awww, Striker is so sweet is he not?! He's just as cute as a button! I love him so... he's mine...O_O stay away. (Code for OC, please don't use any of my characters that I made up in my own think tank) _

_You like? You no like? Let me know either way:) Read and Review._

_Just to make all of you TF fans jealous... I went to town the other day and guess who I saw? BUMBLEBEE! A yellow Camaro right down to the black racing strips! It was awesome! So cool was it! So I'll stop now, 'til next Monday._


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I do NOT own Transformers. (Just a reminder in case someone forgot... I know I didn't)**

_This one was actually fun to write... (that was morbid of me, once you read you will find out why) Anyway, read, look for errors in my spelling, my writing, my whatever, enjoy (I hope) and review if you like or even if you don't. I would like to hear from you either way :D_

_A huge thank you to my reviewers that leave such helpful comments for me. It really helps me to keep going on this_ story.

_I do a lot of editing, just to let everyone know. After I put up a chapter I usually go back on it at least two or three different times to change or swap something out._

**Chapter Six**

Hot Rod curls up weakly in the corner of his cell as the sound of pede-falls reach his audios. _He _is coming. Trembling breaks out across the youngling's maltreated frame and he chokes back a dreading sob. Not again. Please Primus, not again.

The Con stops at the mechling's cell. The digital code is entered into the lock and the barred door is opened. The huge Decepticon mech reaches down and grabs the shaking youngling by his arm. Hot Rod begins to fight as the Con he only knows as Off-liner tows him along out of his cell.

Off-liner grunts in irritation at the mechling's attempt to free himself and merely backhands him across the faceplates. With a cry Hot Rod cowers away from his uncaring warden. His helm aches tremendously from the blow and he staggers along beside the mech. He falls to his knee-plates several times only to be jerked up by Off-liner and leered at.

Hot Rod is thrown to the ground when the duo enters what the mechling heard one of the older prisoners in the cell next to his refer to as the 'Entertainment Room' or just the E.R. Basically it is where Megatron tortures his unfortunate captives that he deems worthy of his time. The rest of them just get passed off to Scalpel or Shockwave as experiment bots or one of the other medics to toy with until they slowly offline.

The youngling winces as a rough servo grabs his dented shoulder armor and hauls him to his pedes. He was considered as worthy of the Decepticon leader's attentions. His blue optics scan the dark shadowed room for the grey mech. He is not present.

Panic jumps into Hot Rod's spark, does that mean he is going to be handed off to one of the Con's scientists? What is going to happen to him? Images of things he had eavesdropped off of Ironhide and Optimus enters his processor. They have spoken of Autobots so tortured and damaged that when rescued they offline themselves. Some of the poor bots didn't even remember their own designation, let alone their old comrades. Others were implanted with horrible viruses that worked slowly over time and allowed their friends to watch them offline in writhing pain.

"Hot Rod," the voice sends calm into his spark as well as new waves of anxiety. Megatron enters the 'Entertainment Room' servos swinging easily by his sides, his claws flex testily as he nears. "I realize you were just here recently, but forgive me. You know how I can't bear to be kept away from my family." The Con's rumbling vocals make Hot Rod's frame begin to shudder. The insincerity that clings to every fabric of Megatron's being is clearly visible to the young mechling. His presence here could only mean one thing. More torture.

Megatron reaches out a clawed servo and catches the youngling's faceplates. With a steel grip he turns Hot Rod's helm left then right. A malevolent sneer befalls the Decepticon's lip plates when he hears the youngling's armor plating begin to rattle as his trembling increases. Megatron lifts his brother's helm to force him to look into his dark faceplates and a soft hitch of Hot Rod's vents catches the warlord's attention.

"Brother," the youngling flinches sharply at the large mech's sudden words and Megatron almost chortles with glee at his brother's fright. "You are right to fear me." Hot Rod's optics grow slightly defiant in light of his terror's exposure. Well, Megatron was expecting boldness sooner or later and he is prepared. With malice in his blazing optics, the Con scratches his sharp talons across the youngling's collar armor. A strangled cry comes from the red, yellow, and orange mechling, energon seeps out of the deep furrows cut into his frame. The eerie, glowing, blue liquid runs down Hot Rod's chest plates.

Megatron lifts his energon stained servo and scoffs at the youngling's subdued whimpers, a quick glossa flicks out and licks the life energy off of the dark grey claws. Hot Rod's shaking increases drastically when he sees the morbid gesture from the Decepticon warlord.

"See to it," Megatron commands Off-liner before turning away abruptly. Off-liner quickly drags Hot Rod to the large chains that hang from the ceiling to the middle of the floor. With rude servos, the warden encompasses the youngling's arms and leaves him dangling a few feet from the ground. Off-liner steps back with a pleased-as-pit simper on his faceplates before he is kicked out of the 'Entertainment Room' by Megatron.

The fresh cuts on Hot Rod's collar armor are tolerable at best. Energon runs slowly down his frame and drips into the crevices of his outer plating. The youngling shutters his optics, trying desperately to make the horrible reality disappear. It doesn't work at all, so the mechling directs his attention toward his bonds.

Anger. That is the most common emotion that transmits through his family bonds, especially through Ultra Magnus'. Dread is prominent in his creator's bond, and worry courses through Optimus'. A soft brush of what Hot Rod identifies as comfort reaches through Optimus' bond as the youngling is focused on it. The youngling's optics snap open.

Comfort? Hot Rod viciously slaps it away. Comfort?! He is in Kaon for Primus' sake! In Megatron's 'Entertainment Room', and all Optimus does is send comfort!? He doesn't want it! Optimus can keep his comfort for those who will believe the phantom, non-existent touches of security! The youngling gulps back a sob that threatens to sound from his vocals. Why didn't they just come and get him? Where are his uncorrupted siblings and his mech creator?

"Stop sniveling!" Megatron barks from across the room where he stands in the shadows. Hot Rod wasn't aware that he was making noises. Apparently his keen managed to escape his vocals without his consent. The youngling's vents hitch harshly as he struggles to keep his fear down. Megatron feeds upon fear. A choked sob comes from the mechling and Megatron glares at him sharply, turning his cry into a tiny, frightened burst of static.

A snort of amusement sounds from Megatron, but the warlord remains on the other side of the room. This is a small relief to Hot Rod. Slowly, gathering courage from this little byte of positivity, the mechling subdues his quaking. Megatron is waiting on someone, he only wanted Hot Rod here to terrorize in his guests' postponed arrival. That is, if Megatron has guests at all. For some reason all Hot Rod can imagine is prisoners being led through those huge, blackened doors of Kaon.

The sound of pede-falls reach the youngling's audios and a grey seeker enters the E.R. The seeker spots Megatron and suddenly begins smiling widely.

"Lord Megatron! I take it your trip to Iacon has been a success?" The seeker asks cautiously.

Megatron growls lowly, "Starscream, you've failed me once again." The larger Decepticon does not move from the shadows and Hot Rod can tell it makes Starscream nervous. The seeker fidgets in place and appears to be trying to hide his arm behind his wings.

A tense chuckle comes from the S.I.C. and he inquires in a timid voice, "My Lord?"

"You were to eradicate Metropolis, the troops stationed there and whatever Autobot reinforcements happened to come. According to an inside source the city's citizens have been evacuated. Not only that but over twenty of the Metropolian troops are online and you were defeated," Megatron pauses. Hot Rod feels disgust rising like unpurified energon in his tanks. That inside source would be Quick-plot. The youngling remains silent in his terrified rage and watches as Megatron's ruby optics crawl like scraplets across Starscream's panicked frame. "Care to elaborate what went wrong?"

"Eh," the first noise to come out of the seeker's vocals is an undignified squeak followed by a sudden bursting dam of words. "It wasn't my fault! Everything was going according to plan and I had everything under control! Then Optimus Prime showed up with his bumbling Autobots," Starscream puts distain upon the Prime's designation and the faction that defeated him, "and ruined everything!" In a last effect of exasperation, the seeker flails both of his arms out wildly revealing what he had been trying to conceal from the warlord. His arm is missing.

Megatron's optic ridge rises at the damage done to his S.I.C. Little droplets of energon fall from the severed appendage and hit the floor glowing blue.

Starscream straightens and glances at his missing limb, an anxious laugh coming from him once again, "A lucky shot."

"After the battle, you took quite a while to regroup and return," Megatron steps out of the shadows and glares at the seeker mistrust etched clearly on his hardened faceplates. "If I find out you have been initiating or otherwise participating in activities that are in sinister nature toward me I will remove your spark myself."

The seeker cowers away from the Decepticon leader with his one clawed servo coming up in a feeble attempt to sooth Megatron's ire. His arm stub sticks up pathetically also and only succeeds in splattering energon across the larger mech's chest. The blue life energy rolls gaily down the Con's armor with Starscream staring in utter horror.

Megatron says nothing, his red optics watch the energon trail down his frame wordlessly. Everything is silent except for Starscream's increasingly labored venting. The seeker's armor is flared out ready to be struck for his slip up, his red orbs are large and alarmed and his mouth plates hang open in aghast. His frame is held statue still for fear of bringing Megatron's wrath plummeting down upon him.

Another mech enters the E.R., startling Starscream. Hot Rod's optics focuses on the new comer, it is large black mech. He is some sort of aerial bot, maybe a jet, if the youngling had to guess. His crimson optics glance over Starscream coolly and a trace of a grin ticks at his lip plates before his gaze settles on the Decepticon leader, "You summoned me, Lord Megatron?"

"Yes, Nighthawk," Megatron pauses and glares solidly at Starscream for a moment before continuing, "As a result of my Second in Command's inability to follow orders you are promoted from T.I.C. to his rank as active S.I.C."

"What?!" Starscream yelps obnoxiously. He is ignored.

"As of this instant Soundwave is broadcasting it through the Decepticon communication links, so any disobedience from those who are not accustomed to being beneath you can be dealt with harshly." This is said more to Starscream since he and Megatron was really the only ones above Nighthawk in rank. The seeker in question flops his mouthplates open and closed in inability to comprehend the turn of events.

Megatron turns away from the flabbergasted seeker and stares at Hot Rod with malicious optics, "Starscream, you may require a medic to look after that arm. I would suggest Knockout; the apprentice needs experience after all." Hot Rod highly doubts that Megatron is concerned with a medic's experience, rather it is a painful reprimand that Starscream is under his command, and now under this other mech, Nighthawk's, also. Decepticon medics are never gentle, though the older and more experienced they are the less uncomfortable their operations are.

Starscream scowls, "Yes, master," he grounds before whirling and leaving the warlord and the new Second in Command. Nighthawk turns his helm, optics tracking Starscream with mistrust and allows a little smirk to follow the seeker's absence. When the demoted mech is gone, leaving only blue energon as a reminder of his brief stay, Nighthawk focuses on Megatron.

"If that is all, my liege, then I request permission to—"

Megatron raises his grey servo in a sharp command to be silent, which Nighthawk obeys immediately. The black aerial mech furrows his optic ridge, but awaits the Decepticon's next words with patience.

"You will remain here, Nighthawk," Megatron says finally, his optics boring deep into his new S.I.C.'s. "I have a guest coming to discuss the issue of his troops having nowhere to be stationed. As my Second you are now required to be involved directly in all matters that I may need… advice on." The Con's tone of voice told Hot Rod that this Nighthawk's advice would probably just be thrown out the window.

Nighthawk nods thoughtfully before replying to Megatron, "As you wish."

"He has just arrived a few kliks_(1 klik=1.2 earth min.)_ ago, Soundwave is escorting him here," Megatron adds as a rewarding tidbit for the mech's resolute obedience. He should have made him S.I.C. millennia ago. Starscream would have meddled and questioned until he had attempted to squeeze every byte of information out of Megatron. The warlord likes this, not having to explain his actions to his Second.

Hot Rod narrows his optics as he watches the two Decepticons; the newly appointed S.I.C. appears to not have noticed him yet. More than likely far too pleased about his promotion to pay attention to a youngling dangling in chains in the middle of the E.R. Just as well, the longer the Cons' attentions are focused elsewhere the longer he gets by without torture.

Two new mechs enter the room. Hot Rod recognizes the dark purple and black mech immediately, the Con's faceless helm gives it away. Soundwave. The other is a huge, towering mech that makes Hot Rod shrink slightly. This mech is a dark grey, almost black in color, that makes his optics look like tiny flames from a smelting pit. Hot Rod's young facial recognition programs fail to pair a designation with this new mech that has the commanding presence that challenges Megatron himself.

Megatron allows a toothed smile to grace his lip plates, "Galvatron," he greets the enormous mech as if they are old friends. 'Galvatron' nods a quick response to the other mech.

"Megatron," Hot Rod notices that this mech does not add a respectful higher title to the warlord's designation. Megatron doesn't appear to take offense either; they must have a mutual understanding of leadership. Hot Rod tries to imagine his corrupted brother sharing leadership with anyone and inwardly snorts at the notion.

"You will be pleased to know that my Third in Command Starscream managed to secure a city at a relatively close distance to Iacon," Megatron says clearly smug to convey this news.

Galvatron's faceplates turn into morbid delight, "Really? And for what purpose are you going to use it for?"

"I will turn it over to your capable servos; that is where you may station your troops if you wish. It is a milestone to conquering Iacon itself." Megatron fists his dark, energon stained claws in emphasis. "It brings us a step closer to winning the war." Hot Rod shivers involuntarily at the Con's unsympathetic and wicked words. He is glad that for this moment, the warlord's attention is focused on the mech known as Galvatron.

A smirk flits across Galvatron's visage, "I accept this proposal. It would seem to hold a great advantage being so close to the capitol of Cybertron. Although it may give the Autobots a more ready means of spying upon us."

"Naturally," Megatron hisses, "But you must consider that without the added element of citizens, the whole city can be occupied by troops. If anything it will frighten them when they dare to snoop around."

"And if Sentinel decides to take a full military strike against the city while I have my army stationed there? Hm?" Galvatron shakes his helm and utters a short spiteful laugh, "I will not be positioning my entire force there. It is too irrational."

Megatron chuckles darkly, "You have not allowed me to reveal the whole of my plan."

"Then by all means, continue," the other mech declares with impatience coloring his vocals.

"May I introduce you to the beginning of Iacon's defeat," Megatron turns and moves his stained claws in a presentation of the youngling hanging from the ceiling. Hot Rod's spark jumps as all the blazing red optics turn to look at the only blue-sight in the room. Megatron approaches him and smiles sinisterly, his jagged teeth making him look like some sort of prehistoric Predicon.

"A youngling?" Nighthawk questions the Decepticon in two words. Megatron's scalding glare lands soundly upon the new S.I.C. and Nighthawk quickly adds more words to make his inquiry respectful, "My Lord?"

Satisfied that the offending mech is put back in his place, Megatron turns back to Galvatron, "He is the key to Sentinel Prime's downfall."

"Who is this?" Galvatron's tone is unimpressed and Megatron frowns. He glares at Hot Rod, the mechling quivers under the intense stare and the warlord scoffs.

"My weak excuse of a co-creation."

Hot Rod forces himself to look up challengingly to his brother and is swiftly dealt a servo to the faceplates. His cry is sharp sounding in the bare, dimly lit, E.R. The mechling lifts his optics again and finds the S.I.C., Nighthawk looking very disturbed. He appears to be ready to object the maltreatment of the youngling but in the end holds his glossa. The black mech's distressed look is quickly masked and he regards Hot Rod with harsh garnet optics.

_He can go to the Pit_, Hot Rod thinks to himself angrily.

"Your co-creation?" Galvatron's vocals are even more blasé. Obvious to Hot Rod, he doesn't see the grand scheme that Megatron is speaking of. To tell the truth not even Hot Rod has got that figured out yet.

Megatron's countenance becomes almost giddy as he turns toward his guest and subordinate officers, "Yes!" The warlord's pedes sound deafeningly as he walks toward them, and much to Hot Rod's relief, away from the youngling.

"Megatron," the other Con leader begins sounding unconvinced, "Is this personal?" He steps around the warlord, whose evil joy is turning into anger at being questioned. Galvatron approaches Hot Rod and a little smile traces across the Decepticon's faceplates as the youngling draws back, ready for a blow. "Personal," Galvatron utters glowering at the trembling Autobot mechling, "is not good for business." He turns and looks at Megatron who stands there and is almost spiting in rage.

"No! This is not personal!" The wrathful Con roars and stalks up to Hot Rod. The youngling recoils from his brother as the Decepticon grabs him with his clawed servos. The talons dig sharply into Hot Rod's frame and he gasps at the pain that racks him. Energon trickles out of the new wounds and the youngling gags back the cry that struggles to be emitted from his vocal processor. A wicked grin splits Megatron's saw-like mouthplates at his sibling's pain. He clenches Hot Rod's frame tighter triggering sparks to erupt from damages his monstrous grip is causing.

Hot Rod can feel himself breaking under the intense hold. Warning signals flash radically in his processor as the trauma being dealt to him becomes more then his youngling frame can handle. A gurgling scream rips from his vocals as his brother's claws break through his armor. Energon flows in streams from the injuries as his plating is crushed on his frame. His optic vision flickers. Megatron releases him and a laugh floats by the youngling's audios. Someone is crying. Moans resonate around the E.R. and Hot Rod realizes in a haze that it is himself.

Vaguely he can hear Megatron speaking again, "They are all connected to him through bonds, Sentinel, Magnus, Optimus. They feel every twinge of torture I inflict upon him," there is a brief pause and Hot Rod lifts his hanging helm, his optics flicker back online and he stares unfocusedly at his captors. Megatron is mocking, Galvatron is entertained, Nighthawk is frowning deeply, and Soundwave is blank. His brother's claws touch one of his injuries and a shudder runs through the youngling, earning another leering laugh from Megatron.

"Are you not affected also?" Nighthawk asks his optics trained on the half-aware mechling, whose life energon drips steadily from his frame. The black S.I.C.'s optic ridge is furrowed sternly as he subconsciously scans the Autobot for any spark-threatening damages. Megatron scoffs, he does not seem to notice the scan, but Hot Rod does. It sends tingling feelings throughout his whole miserable build, starting from his helm, ending at his slack pedes. In curiosity, the mechling gazes fuzzily at the S.I.C., who stops scanning immediately and scowls at Hot Rod.

"Any bonds I might have had with my family are deteriorated virtually to the point of nonexistence," Megatron is saying, "It is not intelligent for one to be linked in such ways with an opponent. It provides a weakness." There is a brief silence and as an afterthought the Decepticon adds, "I cannot afford such a liability."

Galvatron steps toward Hot Rod again and gives his limp frame a push, the swinging motion makes the mechling feel like purging his tanks. His damaged armor screeches together and makes sparks spray the floor at the Decepticons' pedes. The culprit of his current swaying discomfort merely smirks and then speaks to Megatron, "What is your plan then?"

"I specifically had Starscream attack Metropolis for a reason," Megatron begins. Hot Rod is listening until he glances over toward the Decepticon S.I.C. then his audios tune out his brother's ranting as his curiosity zones in on Nighthawk.

Nighthawk has straightened and his optics blaze fractionally before reverting back to the calm collectedness of before. His posture remains stiff, though, and his wings are quivering, something dark and dangerous borders along his stance. The new S.I.C.'s indifferent look gradually comes back to his carriage and Hot Rod feels confused. There is something different about this mech.

"They would never attack Kaon," Hot Rod hears Megatron saying dramatically, servos extended to convey the massive breadth of the city they are in. "They know it would be far too imprudent, but Metropolis?" Megatron chuckles after his inquiry, "They know they can penetrate Metropolis. Once I reveal my plan they will rush to heroically save this weakling, the one who could possibly be the next Prime." Another laugh explodes from the Con's vocalizer, "they will walk directly into my trap and we will eliminate them all. I will offline my family because _they_ are the only ones who stand in the way of me becoming a Prime myself. When there is no Prime, the Matrix must choose another in the lineage that was first elected by Primus himself… and _I_ will be the only one left to be chosen."

Hot Rod's optics hazily focuses on his sibling in horror. His audios have to be playing tricks on him! Megatron is plotting to offline his creator, his brothers… him!

Galvatron looks slightly in awe of the horrible plan, offline an entire family that is in line to be Prime leaving only the one who will aid the Decepticon cause to take the title? It is a daring, sweeping move, and if it succeeds, it will win the war decisively. There will be no one else to stand in their way. The Autobots will have nothing else in their subspace. A demonic laugh comes from Galvatron; he likes this proposal, "It is clear to me that you have placed a lot of thought in this, Megatron."

Megatron smirks and tilts his helm, "I have."

"Alright then, I will station my army in Metropolis to draw the Primes and Ultra Magnus there so that we may extinguish their sparks," there is a lull in his words then and Galvatron turns and stares into Megatron's optics. "Keep in processor that if this is merely a means in which to destroy my army and severe our partnership," the Con's facial plating suddenly becomes savage and he growls, "then I will exterminate you."

Megatron snarls at the sudden anger directed at him, "So little faith in your fellow Decepticon."

"I did not become a leader by exercising trust, Megatron," the other says, his vocals relaxing significantly now that his meaning is established. "It will be an honor to fight beside you, but do not think that I do not have optics and audios tuned for a sign of your treachery. I will not be deceived."

"Neither will I," Megatron hisses clenching his claws by his side threateningly.

"We have reached an agreement then."

"And you will not be offended if Nighthawk accompanies you to make sure that you get… settled," Megatron suggests slyly.

A look of outrage comes to Galvatron's faceplates, but is quickly controlled, "You will come also, I hope?" His tone has turned civil as he lays the trap to get Megatron in the city of Metropolis too. If it is indeed a ploy to get rid of him then Megatron will refuse to come. Galvatron almost smiles at his creative snare.

"Of course," Megatron answers him easily and his serrated mouthplates lift in a foreboding leer, "I want to be a part of my creator's and siblings' offlining, after all, I planned it."

Galvatron nods, his lip plates lifting slightly, "I will set out immediately," he tips his helm toward his equal in a silent departure. As the dark Decepticon is leaving, Megatron's voice stops him.

"Nighthawk will go with you now to escort the prisoner," the warlord glances at Hot Rod who stares back expressionlessly, optics glazed into a dull blue, "I will come after your troops are stationed." Without turning, Galvatron grunts to indicate he has heard and has no argument, with that the huge mech leaves. Megatron watches him go, his processing cautiously optimistic toward the future. The Decepticons' time is dawning; it is coming with every intake of their vents, every pulse of their sparks.

"My Lord?" Nighthawk begins speaking his vocals hesitant. Megatron rumbles his powerful engine in irritation and the S.I.C. blinks. The warlord looks at Nighthawk expectantly, growing impatient, the smaller mech vents and utters a short, humorless laugh, "Forgive me… I lost my trail of thought."

Hot Rod can tell he hasn't. The S.I.C.'s optics are pained and his expression is strained with a hint of anxiety. The youngling watches the black aerial mech with interest; Nighthawk's actions do not completely fill the Decepticon quota.

"Nighthawk, take the prisoner and go to the city of Metropolis, I will come when the troops are in their established places," Megatron orders feeling completely in control of the moment.

"Lord Megatron, wouldn't your departure only give Starscream a time period in which to stir up trouble?" Nighthawk enquiries carefully.

"Huhm," the warlord snorts, "The cycle that one of that imbecile's moronic schemes prove a success is the cycle that Unicron's Pit will freeze over." He pauses then says, "Your concern is noted, though, Nighthawk. Soundwave will keep a close optic on him in our absence." Nighthawk glances at the faceless mech in question, Soundwave is blank. "Take an extra guard with you though," Megatron adds nonchalantly, "Galvatron may not deem my brother as a high priority to guard; we cannot have him escape when we are so close to victory."

"Yes, my liege," the S.I.C. answers before comming the young prisoner's guard. Off-liner appears only kliks_(klik=1.2 earth minutes)_ later as Megatron heads off to his private quarters. "You will accompany me in escorting this prisoner to Metropolis," Nighthawk informs the dull grey mech who stands there stupidly and nods as the black Second speaks, "take him down, and prepare to be bridged to the city's coordinates."

Off-liner quickly scurries up to Hot Rod and unchains him. Hot Rod's pedes hit the floor as his arms are released, pain seers through his frame as he lands and he cries out in agony. He falls to a heap and curls up like a sparkling, trying to snuff out his misery. Off-liner titters and grabs the youngling by the helm, heaving the mechling to his pedes the warden grins showing his broken off denta in his mouthplates.

"Guard," Nighthawk's vocals are harsh and Off-liner drops Hot Rod in surprise. The youngling crashes back to the ground with a groan slipping from his lip plates. Nighthawk looks displeased, "Take him to the bridge." Off-liner nods and turns back to Hot Rod giving the mechling a rude kick to the abdomen before hauling the softly sniffing bot up again. "Guard," Nighthawk stops Off-liner once more and the warden finds himself getting impatient with the new S.I.C. "When I reach the bridging area, I expect to see a functioning youngling," the black mech says calmly, his faceplates unreadable to the guard, "Compute?"

"Yes, Commander," Off-liner mutters. Whew, the new S.I.C. is a party slagger! Off-liner was really looking forward to 'accidently' scuffing up his detainee a little. The words 'functioning youngling' put a quick damper on his fun. As the guard leaves, taking care not to damage Hot Rod any further Nighthawk turns to see Soundwave pointed lifelessly in his direction.

"Alright," Nighthawk's easygoing personality traits slip up a little as he speaks to the silent Communications Officer, he curses himself inwardly for letting his rigidness slide, "You heard Megatron's order about keeping an optic on Starscream, I suppose?" Soundwave nods. Nighthawk tips his helm back, "Get to it," he says, his command holding a fine biting edge to it. The S.I.C. turns and exits the E.R. and heads for the space bridge.

Soundwave watches the black mech leave without moving. The C.O. listens to the sound of Nighthawk's pedes fade before playing back to himself the events of the E.R. he has just recorded. He takes note of Nighthawk in every place that the S.I.C. spoke or otherwise did something besides stand strictly in attention. A twitch of an optic here, a worried look there, anger flashes over the S.I.C.'s faceplates on more than one occasion. Nothing too serious, but Soundwave has to keep his attentions on the loyalties of his master's officers, it is something he has personally taken upon himself.

At the end of the feed Soundwave looks in the direction that Nighthawk had went, carefully the faceless mech plays snippets from his recordings to himself that is in Megatron's voice, "So little…Decepticon." The C.O. walks slowly out of the E.R. and Galvatron's own words come through his speakers as he thinks of Nighthawk, "I will not be deceived."

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO oOoOoOoOo

Nighthawk feels a shudder threaten to spring across his frame as he leaves the Communications Officer standing behind him. Soundwave's empty stare sears into the mech's back struts until he turns the corner and the S.I.C. fights the sudden urge to vent in relief, he shrugs his shoulders as he realizes that they are tensed up. Slowly and easily Nighthawk walks through the halls of the base of Kaon. His tension eases subtly but his guard remains up.

The S.I.C. has a feeling that Megatron appointed him as Second for reasons other than Starscream's failure. More than likely the Decepticon warlord wanted a break from the seeker's constant plotting to seize power to put his own devious plan in motion.

The reasoning in Nighthawk's processor is simple; if Starscream isn't S.I.C. then he cannot offline Megatron and expect to take over the leadership position. He will have to regain his status and then continue in his conniving efforts… Nighthawk has an inkling that he is on the seeker's hit list. With Nighthawk out of the way it would leave only Starscream as S.I.C.

The mech suddenly stops. He is outside of the Decepticon Medical Unit. Why did he come here?

Metropolis. Starscream.

Without another thought on the matter Nighthawk steps through the doors and pauses. He immediately spots Scalpel standing over the now-sparkless-frame of an Autobot sympathizer a patrol had found a few cycles ago.

"Scalpel," Nighthawk catches the spider-like medic's attention.

"Nighthawk! Zis iz unexzeptible! I cannot work wiz offlined botz! I am a zientist, I need funczhioning specimen!" The creepy little medic waves his blade arms around angrily as he yells.

The S.I.C. snorts at the tiny mech's outrage, "I'm not here to take complaints, Scalpel. Which corner of this pit is Starscream in?"

"Zis iz a Medical Unit!" Scalpel growls.

"You're a scientist, not a medic," Nighthawk says with a smirk. It probably wasn't overly smart to sass the one who might be repairing him some cycle, but the larger mech couldn't resist.

The red optics of the medic narrow severely, "If I waz you, mech, I would not zay zos zings to za one who repairz you when you iz damaged! You may be za second in command now, but zome cycle_(day)_ you will find yourzelf upon my medical berth, and you will regret saying zese zings."

Nighthawk's own gaze turns scathing, "How about you just show me where Starscream is, you little scraplet, hmm?"

Scalpel huffs and grumbles something about being underappreciated before he points a bladed limb in a general direction. Nighthawk smiles his thanks sarcastically before walking calmly away from the seething little Con. Yeah, some cycle_(day)_ he was going to pay for that. He hears Starscream before he sees him and the seeker is muttering and complaining about recent events to a bright cherry red junior medic who looks annoyed.

"And I had everything right where I wanted it when Optimus Prime shows up and shoots my arm off!" Starscream recants his tale of woe to the unimpressed Knockout with an angry thrash of his uninjured limb.

"Starscream, if you don't stop moving I won't be able to repair you properly," the agitated junior medic chastises the seeker.

Starscream sulks quietly for about a nano-klik _(1 earth second)_ before bursting out with new vigor, "And then when I stuck my neck plates out to obey _Lord_ _Megatron_, he demotes me!" The warlord's title is said with contempt dripping off of every letter. "And guess who took my place!?"

Knockout vents in frustration as the arms begin to move emphatically again and snaps, "I'm guessing the one that Soundwave announced over the communication link, but what do I know? Now will you remain still?"

The former S.I.C. pays no heed to the red mech and continues on his rant, "Nighthawk! He put Nighthawk in my place! Can you believe the incompetence of it?!" Nighthawk raises his optic ridge and remains silent to hear what else the seeker had to say. "It is the most rudest of insults to me Knockout, that Megatron thinks that, that… lax, retarded… spawn of, of, of a glitch helm could take my place!"

Knockout notices Nighthawk standing easily behind Starscream, his arms crossed and a smirk on his faceplates. The young apprentice's mouthplates quirk upward in a grin and his laughs aloud at the irony of the situation. What are the chances that the same mech the seeker was just bad mouthing is standing right behind where he is sitting on a berth?

"This is not funny!" Starscream shrieks as he hears the red mech's hilarity. "I find nothing comical about this current predicament!"

"Lighten up Screamer," Nighthawk speaks up from behind the exasperated mech. The seeker's back goes stiff at his voice and he leaps from the berth, whirling in midair to face the black S.I.C.

"Oh, how long where you back there Ni—uh, I mean Commander?" Starscream asks his vocals more than a little nervous.

Nighthawk shrugs uncaringly, "Long enough."

"Naha, you heard everything I just said didn't you?"

Nighthawk snorts, "Calm yourself, mech. If I really thought you are a threat to me I would've offlined you already."

A deep scowl touches the seeker's faceplates, "Oh? What are you doing here then?"

"The Commander of the Metropolian troops, did you offline her?"

Starscream's expression grows wary, "Why?"

Nighthawk's lip plates tip into a smile that manages to look lax and menacing at the same time, "You're not the only one with a grudge, Screamer."

Irritation flashes across the newly appointed T.I.C.'s faceplates, "Commander, I would rather you refrain from using that infernal nickname, and as an answer to your question, no. I did not offline her, as much as I would have liked to." Starscream's frame is still held in obvious tension as he watches the S.I.C. mech.

"Too maladroit to get the job done, I suppose?"

The seeker's optics constrict in barely held anger as he watches Nighthawk turn to leave. Without warning Starscream lunges over the medical berth that separates the two of them, his claws brace to tear through energon cables and main lines. Even with just one servo it will be an easy feat, Nighthawk is unsuspecting. As the seeker is flying through the air he smiles wickedly in happiness at his clever self. Then the S.I.C. whirls. His huge servo slaps Starscream open palmed across the faceplates and sends him sailing back over the berth.

Starscream lands gracelessly on top of Knockout and the two go to the ground in an undignified heap of pedes and arms. Everything is still for a moment and Nighthawk smirks at the pile up. Knockout stirs and shoves the grey seeker off of him with a snarl. Leaping to his pedes, the junior medic quickly checks over his own well-being.

"Look what you've done!" Knockout howls indignantly. Nighthawk grins at the junior medic's horror-filled faceplates and then at the scratch that fingers its way across his red shoulder armor. "Are you amused by this ghastly mark?" The red mech snaps his optics growing more wrathful by the moment at the damage to his finish.

"Starscream will buff it out for you as recompense for your services," Nighthawk says to the irritated junior medic, "Finish his repairs and he will start on this assignment immediately." Starscream scrambles to his pedes, optics flashing, mouthplates open, ready to tell the new S.I.C. exactly where he can shove that order. Nighthawk cocks his helm mockingly, "Something you want to say, Starscream?" The black mech's entire attitude dares the seeker to try and assert his former authority over him.

It is a trick, Starscream knows this now and he forces a smile onto his faceplates, Soundwave is watching and he will tell Megatron. Not that Megatron will care that the seeker is trying to extinguish Nighthawk, but rather the Decepticon leader will be furious that he is openly defying him in front of others. A bad example to everyone else is what the warlord would call it. Trying to offline Nighthawk will be tolerated, disobeying in front of the troops, or in this case, the angry ground-roller medic, will not be.

"My apologies, Commander Nighthawk," Starscream goes for his best aft-kissing tone, "My temper got the better of me for a moment. As soon as my injuries are repaired I will take care of Knockout's misfortune."

"Good," Nighthawk says and turns to leave again, but before he has taken even three steps he looks back over his shoulder armor. "Starscream," he calls and the seeker faces the black mech with a smile plastered on, "The next time you try to attack me when I'm walking away, I will offline you."

The annoying S.I.C. suddenly seems like a fearsome giant to Starscream as he watches the black mech walk out of the Medical Unit. He will have to be more careful in how he tries to exterminate Nighthawk in the future.

!*i*i*i*i*i*i*i*i*i*i*i*i*i*!

_And that concludes chapter six! OMIWERD! Megatron has revealed his horrendous and devious plot to offline his entire family and take the title of Prime for himself! Anywee, I hope you all like it? Review either way? Every review helps me keep going :)_

_To all of you Starscream fans out there that may read this. Please don't tear the flesh from my body for demoting the poor seeker, it was essential for the development of the story. It simply couldn't go in the direction I want it to with Screamer as the S.I.C. :D_

_I shaved my dog today... he was a happy Pomeranian... now he is an angry rat... he is plotting my death... that is all._


	7. Chapter 7

_**Disclaimer: I don't own the Transformers. I only own the idea of my O.C.s The only thing I really 'own' is myself, my cloths, and half of an old yellow Pontiac Sunfire... I don't own this laptop that I'm writing on either. It is my sister's. This is depressing... lol**_

_Ooookaaayyy! I have slaved away indefinitely! I have finished my homework so quickly that the pages of my books are aflame with fire from my rapidly learning mind, my Einstein-like reading skills, and my pencil, Soundwave, that flies as NASCAR speeds...(It is black and purple so hence the name) I have neglected my social well-being to bring you this new installment of my (pathetically named) story BEGINNINGS! So you all better appreciate my sacrifices!_

_He, he. Ignore that up there. I have been suffering from writer's block for quite some time now and it is making me a little bit irritable. D _

_This chapter has a little bit of a mystical feel to it and I wasn't quite sure exactly how to write everything so, if you think I wrote it wrong please let me know. And if you think I wrote it right then pat me on the head and give me bagels of delicious reviews. (Okay... that was a little bit weird. Even for me.) _

**Chapter Seven**

The hurt that thrums steadily through Sentinel's spark is agony. Maybe not physically, but mentally, the pain that he feels coming through his youngest creation's bond is distracting, to say the least.

The old Prime blinks and once again tries to focus on what Quick-plot is saying. It is almost futile. This is what Megatron _wants. He wants me to be confused and angry that he has taken Hot Rod. I cannot let my personal feelings get in the way of my decision of whether or not it is wise to attempt a rescue mission._

"What do you think, Sentinel Prime?" Quick-plot asks him and the older mech is silent. Hurriedly Sentinel runs through his audio recordings and listens to the tactician's proposal to himself, hoping that no one notices his blunder.

Capture one of the Decepticon officers then propose a prisoner exchange. It isn't the dumbest idea he's ever hear but it certainly isn't the brightest either. Sentinel vents and turns his optics over his small council of trusted friends and family, they all want to get Hot Rod back.

Piston speaks up, "If our forces haven't been able to capture a Decepticon officer on any other cycle_ (1 earth day)_, what makes you think that they will be able to do it now?"

"Maybe you haven't been sending the right mechs for the job," Ironhide growls and twirls his cannons for emphasis on what he is hinting at. Ultra Magnus looks to be on the verge of agreeing with his like-minded counterpart.

Sentinel remains still and lets them bicker among themselves. It is apparent that Ironhide and Ultra Magnus want energon to be spilled, and to tell the truth, Prime really wouldn't mind it himself. Sentinel violently shoves that terrible thought to the back of his processor. He is letting his paternal side take over his reasoning and it will not do, he has to think as a leader… not just a father.

"What if they are mobilizing to come back in the same way that Megatron did, but with an army?" Red Alert barks angrily trying to get everyone's attention on what he deems to be the most pressing issue of the moment. Much to the H.O.S.'s dismay no one seems to share his concern.

"Red, I think we would be able to see an army of Cons coming," Ironhide mutters irritably.

Sonic-blaster points out another argument, "Even if they tried to bridge in, the city is guarded against unauthorized portholes, so they'd have to come in the old fashion way."

This quiets the security bot for the time being and Sentinel frowns in the silence. Optimus should be coming back by now, it displeased the older Prime that his son had left, but he understands that his creation is a very tender-sparked mech. He probably decided to stay with the tactical bot that had so randomly fallen over.

"I think," Quick-plot begins carefully, "that the most important question right now is, 'are we going to even pursue a rescue mission?'" His blue optics land on Sentinel Prime and the older mech knows the answer. They cannot. Megatron has more than likely taken Hot Rod to Kaon, the capitol of the Decepticon cause. A city filled with nothing but military killing machines.

"What kind of single-byte for processor question is that?" Ultra Magnus asks his vocals turning dangerously low. Ironhide grunts his agreement and glares flaming swords into the tactical bot. Sentinel frowns subtly and dwells on how to tell his second eldest creation that Quick-plot is right. The task becomes harder as the Ultra Magnus continues, "We're going to get Hot Rod back, one way or another."

"Magnus," Prime begins his vocals sound far too defeated for his liking; he pauses for a moment and thinks how to tell his creation that there probably wouldn't be a rescue mission. Ultra Magnus' optics turn swiftly to his creator's at the sound of his designation. The younger mech blinks at the hidden message concealed in his father's cerulean optics.

: I won't let Megatron do this, Prime. : The private comm link sounds in Sentinel's audios and the older mech vents in frustration. Magnus' anger is still opaque through his bond and his creation's usage of his formal title did not bode well for the future conversation.

: Magnus, we may not have a choice. If Megatronus has indeed taken him to Kaon and we attempt a strike against the city, we would be defeated. We would lose more than we would gain. :

Ultra Magnus blinks rapidly at his father's words, then answers heatedly. : So you've decided to put a price upon your own creation's spark? :

Sentinel's helm rises fractionally in shock at his son's lash toward him. It was well deserved; the older mech will not argue that point, but he cannot permit the disrespect to continue. : I must not allow fatherly sentiments to cloud my judgment. Kaon is too well defended to infiltrate without severe losses to our force, and as much as I want to bring my youngest creation back to Iacon, online and well, I realize that it is probably a fantasy. :

Ultra Magnus cuts the private link harshly and looks down at his pedes. He knows that Sentinel is right and he realizes that he may never see Hot Rod again, but he isn't ready to admit it to himself. He can't, because the moment that he does his youngest brother will be lost forever.

Sentinel Prime can feel his second eldest son's anger and slight defeat through his bonds and guilt gnaws at the Prime's spark. He knows that Hot Rod can probably feel it too, the youngling is smart and he will soon understand that they are considering not coming for him. He will feel betrayed by his own family. Sentinel's throat plating constricts in sadness at the thought. He can hear the other mechs still talking among themselves, trying to hatch a good plan and he vents. They are all still hopeful.

Carefully Prime opens the bond to his youngest creation to check on his welfare. Pain screams through the link between the two bots and Sentinel almost gasps from the sheer agony of the emotions coming from Hot Rod. The fatherly instinct roars through Prime's wires and it takes all of his self-control to remain still and not bridge himself directly to Kaon to save the youngling. He closes the bond quickly and tries to focus again, but fails miserably.

He needs to just tell his officers that it is a lost cause and dismiss the meeting. Still a part of him hopes that maybe they will come up with something, anything. Maybe they will be able to pull a miracle out of their subspace in the nick of time. Another vent threatens to be vocalized, he knows that they won't. Megatronus has Hot Rod in Kaon, and there is no way that they will be able to get into that city without major losses.

Sentinel must close the meeting before hopes rise any further only for him to crush them with his words of defeat. He opens his mouthplates to speak, but suddenly his vocalizer fails him. He tries again and finds the same results… What is this? Sentinel Prime's optic vision fades and he can no longer see the bots before him, panic pushes at his chest and his spark pulse quickens. What is happening?

XOxoXOxoXO

A scene appears before him… it is a dying planet. Where is he? Smoke from smoldering debris fills his sensors and silence deafens his audios. He can see his S.I.C. Sonic-blaster beside him and they are losing an important battle. Megatron is defeating them. Optimus and Magnus are present also and they appear to be somewhat older.

This is the future.

_The Wisdom of the Primes,_ Sentinel realizes with a start. It is said that sometimes the Original Seven could speak to, and guide the Primes of the present. This is the only thing this could be. They are trying to show him something. Sentinel's focus sharpens and he watches the battle play out before his optics in horror.

This planet… this dying world is Cybertron.

_These are the final days._

That thought wasn't his own, but the Prime accepts it without question.

Many cities fall in a blaze of missile fire. Tyger Pax is under siege and the All-Spark is launched into outer space in an unknown direction. Sentinel gapes at the terrible event. Who in their right processor would throw their only means of replenishing Cybertron back to its former glory out into the galaxies?

_This is Cybertron's end. _

The battle ends gruesomely and the Autobot forces are scattered to the stars. Many are offlined. Many vorns_ (1 vorn= 83 earth years)_ pass by and the war rages onward. Sentinel feels himself growing weary just watching the countless vorns_ (1 vorn= 83 earth years)_ flee that they must battle their fellow Cybertronians. Surely after all of this time that will pass the Autobots will be victorious.

_This is the future._

Sentinel perks up and stares wide opticed at the planet before him. It is not Cybertron. It is smaller, much smaller. It has a brilliant color blue that covers most of it and the occasional darker brown, red and green that catches his attention. Where in the name of Primus is this? He observes carefully and is suddenly seeing Optimus approaching it with great speeds, a small group of warriors behind him. His creation crash lands and Sentinel finds that it is an organic planet. Interesting.

There is life on it, tiny organic creatures that actually resemble the Cybertronian form. The All-Spark has landed here. Megatron is here also and he plans to take it for himself now that Cybertron is dead. Sentinel scowls, his eldest creation will never be satisfied.

They live here… on this intriguing organic world. There are many battles and many Autobots fall with the Decepticon blade in their side, and countless offline at an organic-filled city to protect the All-spark. They win, but with severe losses.

Life continues onward and Sentinel is saddened to see that Optimus is offlined by Megatron, but to his great relief is resurrected by some power that his vision doesn't reveal to him. He defeats Megatron again and saves the small organic planet that they are now calling their home.

Sentinel comes to earth, but something is wrong with his future self. He is aiding Megatron! Sentinel draws back from the scene in shock and repulsion. He would never help the Decepticons!

_Here is where Optimus Prime will offline._

He and his second youngest meet in battle for the planet's enslavement or freedom, they draw out their weapons and attack. They no longer hold love in their optics for one another, Optimus' holds fury, his own sight is full of energon lust. In the dreadful, muted battle this horrible version of himself slays his own son.

Sentinel's spark twist painfully as his beloved creation's commanding, electric blue optics fade into dark oblivion. Optimus. He would never really do that to his own son, would he? The vision doesn't let him sit idly to wonder, it hurries him along to the next horrible scene.

The organics are enslaved. The planet is theirs and they begin using its resources to rebuild Cybertron… is that what he offlined his own son for?! To rebuild their dead planet into a fraction of what it used to be?! Disgust fills his frame and he tries to end the disturbing vision.

_You must see._

Sentinel Prime stops struggling against the pull of the dreamlike world he finds himself in. He must see? His optics sharpen and his attention becomes fixated.

Ultra Magnus comes to this little organic world to find it enslaved at the servo of his father and brother. He tries to lead a revolt but it is put down harshly. Ultra Magnus is executed for 'treason' against the Decepticon cause. Sentinel chokes back the need to purge his tanks, Ultra Magnus will offline because of his creator's and oldest sibling's greed as well?!

Later Sentinel himself mysteriously is offlined, by Megatron no doubt who will want all the power. The remaining Autobots that are found wondering through space are rounded up and executed, one by one. The Decepticons win the age long struggle and the Autobots are eradicated.

There must be a way to stop this from happening!

_You must alter the course of the present to change the future._

_How?_ He tries to ask his question to the thought that floats serenely through his processor but finds he cannot. _How?!_ He attempts to scream it but no sound can be heard in the blaring silence. The dream begins to fade in his processor and he desperately howls his question to the mystical thoughts that have been travelling through his own, but have now fallen silent. _HOW!?_

As if to answer him, the thought echoes back to him once more as the vision grows fuzzy, _Alter the course of the present… Alter the course of the present… Alter the course of the present… _

UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU

Sentinel's optics clear and his audios catch snippets of Red Alert yelling at Ironhide about the possibility of an attack. Ironhide is talking back to the security bot with a gruff tone that says he is losing his temper.

What happened? Had the Original Seven actually spoken to Sentinel? He blinks in reverence of the fact that, yes that is the only thing it could have been. What did they tell him to do?

_Alter the course of the present._

What was he about to do when the vision started? He was going to dismiss the council and declare that the rescue of Hot Rod is impossible. He cannot do that. He must keep trying to find a way. That must be what the Seven were talking about when they said to alter the present.

In altering his present decision his vision wouldn't come true.

They must rescue Hot Rod… they must.

Sentinel's optics catch sight of Optimus returning with the Praxian and his spark hurts guiltily. He will never fight against his uncorrupted son. He will do whatever possible to keep that dreaded vision from happening.

Optimus' faceplates are carefully blank, but Sentinel can tell something is on his processor. Carefully he prods at his son's bond and is hit by a slap of rage. Sentinel blinks at his son and Optimus avoids his creator's questioning gaze. Something is definitely wrong.

"Piston?" Optimus' strong baritone vocals command attention immediately. Piston looks at the younger Prime worriedly and raises his optic ridge in question. Optimus continues, "Is there any reason to believe that Megatron's infiltration of Iacon may have been planned from the inside?"

Piston looks shocked, "A traitor?!"

Ironhide growls suddenly at the implication of a turncoat in their midst and Red Alert looks to be on the verge of glitching from sheer panic. Ultra Magnus and Sonic-blaster both appear outraged in light of the suspicion. Sentinel straightens with a slight dread coming over his spark, Optimus would never even consider bringing something this monumental to light if he wasn't absolutely certain that there is a traitor.

"What is the meaning of this, Optimus?" Sentinel Prime asks the younger mech.

Optimus' optics travel to the older Prime and then back to Piston, "Some things have been brought to my attention and I wish to have a second opinion for the sake of certainty."

Piston is flabbergasted, "Surely Quick-plot would be a far better judgment on such a serious implication! He is the Head Tactician—"

"I trust your observations, Piston," Optimus says to lay the mech's worries to rest, "Please, just calculate the probability and relay your findings back to me."

Piston nods quickly and his optics grow slightly distant as his processor attacks the problem presented to it. His expression changes suddenly to one of fear to shock. The astonishment is mingled with incredulousness and then is swiftly taken over by anger. The Tactician's gaze sharpens and find a certain black and grey mech who is looking rather uneasy.

"You!" The roar from the usually calm mech causes Sentinel to start. Piston launches himself at Quick-plot and grips his neck plates in his servos, the anger in the attacking mech's actions does not escape Sentinel's attention.

"Magnus restrain him!" Sentinel barks the order as soon as it is apparent that the maddened mech isn't going to stop with just a few blows. Ultra Magnus grabs the tactician and hauls him off of the stunned bot beneath and holds him in an arm lock to calm him. Piston snarls furiously and thrashes in vain to try and free himself to launch another attack.

Ultra Magnus grunts as the flogging mech hits him solidly in the faceplates with his elbow strut, "Piston! Calm yourself!" Ultra Magnus bellows over the struggling bot's violent shouting.

Sentinel notices that the Praxian has station himself next to Quick-plot and has pulled him to his pedes none too gently. The black and white doorwinger keeps his servos on the older tactician's shoulder armor and for a moment Sentinel can see the Enforcer coding that has prompted the Praxian's actions. Quick-plot staggers back against the Praxian doorwinger as if seeking solace from his own S.I.C.'s trembling wrath. The doorwinger frowns deeply and merely steadies the nervous mech by looping his arms around the older tactician's. This action only serves to make the previously tense bot even twitchier.

"What is wrong with you?!" Quick-plot yelps as Piston almost breaks loose from Ultra Magnus' arm lock. The bigger mech overpowers the enrage Piston and wrestles him back into submission, but not before Quick-plot nearly crawls up the Praxian's frame for protection.

Sentinel must get this situation under control, "Piston!" The tactician's designation does nothing to calm him. If anything he goes even more berserk.

"You did this!? How could you?!" Piston squalls as he thrashes in Ultra Magnus' steel grip, "You fragger, you didn't even try to protect Springer!" Sentinel stares between the two tactical bots causing the scene, disbelief starting to form in his optics. Is Piston saying what he thinks he is? Surely not!

Realization comes across every mechs' faceplates as the raging Piston continues to flay wildly, still throwing accusing words toward the cowering Quick-plot. They all realize at once what the angry tactician is speaking of, what his words mean.

The first to get into movement is Ultra Magnus. Fury morphs across his facial features and he slings the wriggling Piston towards Optimus, who captures the tactical bot before he can attack again, and in three huge, ground eating strides Ultra Magnus is beside Quick-plot. The black and grey mech never saw the provoked right hook coming until it lands harshly on his mouthplates and makes him crumple against the Praxian that stands behind him. Instead of letting Quick-plot lay there stunned, Ultra Magnus yanks him to his pedes and wallops him again!

Sentinel hurriedly grabs his son and pulls him off of the dazed mech and finds the Praxian beside him also holding the Prime's livid creation back. Sentinel is immediately grateful for the assistance as Ultra Magnus almost jerks free to pummel Quick-plot once more.

"Ironhide, detain Quick-plot!" Sentinel can hear the Praxian's Enforcer side coming through as he struggles to hold Ultra Magnus. The Prime instantly wonders if it is wise to allow Ironhide to do the detaining. The Praxian must have reach the same conclusion because he yells suddenly, "Sonic-baster, aid him in apprehending the suspect!" That puts Sentinel's processor to ease and he focuses on calming his fuming son.

Ultra Magnus skillfully tosses Sentinel to the side and lunges forward with only the Praxian doorwinger still hanging onto him to try to stop his rampage. The doorwinger suddenly scuttles up Ultra Magnus' frame and curls his legs around the larger mech's neck plating! Nimbly, the black and white mech flips toward the ground, his legs still locked, and throws his maddened counterpart to the floor to land flat on their backs.

The Praxian darts up and entangles Ultra Magnus on the floor with the doorwinger's own limbs to keep him from bounding up and confronting the traitor again. The trapped mech can only flop and snarl in a galled manner as Ironhide and Sonic-blaster along with a panicking Red Alert handcuffs Quick-plot.

"Who knows how many of our secrets he's passed on to Megatron! That slagger could know everything! Everything!" Red Alert rants as Sonic-blaster activates the stasis cuffs on the beaten Quick-Plot.

Sentinel slowly stands wearily, Optimus has gotten Piston under control and the tactical mech is now glowering silently toward his superior H.T. The Praxian is still struggling with Ultra Magnus on the ground at their pedes and Sentinel can hear him speaking over the noise that Red Alert is making with his fears.

"Sir, you must calm yourself!" Ultra Magnus just thrashes some more. "You want to strike him and that is understandable, but hitting him will not bring us any closer to solving this problem!" The flailing slows slightly and the doorwinger continues, "We must question him if we are ever going to help your brother, and we cannot interrogate an unconscious bot." Ultra Magnus stills, his and the Praxian's vents are heaving loudly from their conflict.

"Get off me," Ultra Magnus growls lowly and the Praxian stands warily. Sentinel can tell he has been the subject of many fake acts. The former Enforcer steps back rigidly as the superior he had flipped to the ground regains his pedes and glares at him. Under the intense, unmaking scowl of Ultra Magnus the doorwings on the black and white mech's back dip in apology and submission to the bigger mech's wrath.

Sentinel Prime frowns, "Magnus," his creation's glaring at the young Praxian is shut off immediately at his father's displeased tone. Sentinel then turns his gaze to Piston, "What did you find, Piston, that caused… such a strong reaction?"

Piston's ire looks ready to be rekindled, but somehow he manages to hold it in check, "He has betrayed us." The anger laced words tremble slightly in the high emotion of the tactician. "He let Megatron into the base, I know he has."

"Optimus," Sentinel turns to his younger son who is standing calmly by the shaking Piston, "What led you to suspect that there was a traitor among us?"

"I didn't, rather it was Prowl that made the startling discovery."

All optics turn to the doorwinged Praxian who stands as impassive as a statue under the scrutiny of his superiors. His electric blue gaze sharpens considerably and his stiff stature straightens even more if it was at all possible.

"Prowl?" Quick-plot's mocking vocals make Sentinel's energon roil angrily in his wires, "You're going by an apprentice's assumption?! He is the one who suggested you go to Metropolis when you really should have been here to protect Iacon from Megatron!"

"Silence!" Sentinel's thundering order rings soundly throughout the whole Tactical Office. Quick-plot's optics are round as he stares at the older Prime's stormy faceplates, it is clear that he no longer has his leader's favor. "Continue, Optimus Prime." The formal order makes everyone stand squarer in attention as their leading Prime takes on a commanding air.

Optimus nods before continuing, "Prowl has made it very clear to me that it is a high possibility that our own Head Tactician has allowed a Decepticon into our base to capture the youngling Hot Rod. The facts he laid out for me made his discovery even clearer, such as that Megatron offlined the guards at the western gate but Quick-plot managed to escape with a simple dent on the helm."

"That is a heap of slag!" Quick-plot wails, "Sentinel Prime, please do not heed their accusations! I have done nothing wrong!"

"Then you will not be objective to us investigating further," Sonic-blaster says from next to the pleading bot, his optics flashing in a temper that is rare in the black and green mech.

Sentinel fights the urge to scowl at Quick-plot, "Go on, Optimus Prime."

"He also revealed to me an even more doubtless fact that serves to further the warranted suspicions place upon Autobot Quick-plot," at the last two words there is a disgusted snort from Ironhide and a deep scowl from Ultra Magnus. "The youngling, Springer's injuries suggest that he was attacked with far more violence then then a fully upgraded mech who claims to have confronted the Decepticon."

"That proves nothing!" Quick-plot howls indignantly.

Sentinel hears Ironhide growl a low 'mute your vocals before I do it for you' to Quick-plot. The threatened mech snaps his mouthplates closed and scowls at the glares being cast his direction from all the mechs present.

"While that does cast suspicion on the circumstances, Optimus," Sentinel begins carefully, "I still cannot find anything that would require us doing any more than brigging him." Quick-plot smiles smugly at Prowl and Optimus.

"Prime? If I may speak?" Prowl asks suddenly and Sentinel nods to the young tactician. "Not only are Quick-plot's damages too minor to be caused by a mech of Megatron's strength and brutality, but there is also something that suggests the injuries are self-inflicted."

"That's a fragging lie!" Quick-plot bawls from where he is restrained by Sonic-blaster and Ironhide. One scathing look from the latter shuts him up promptly.

Prowl continues as if unhearing of the interruption, "If you look to the suspect's helm you can see where he was harmed, the paint on his helm is chipped and scratched, but there are no other damages where his opponent would have grabbed him."

"He didn't grab me, he struck me with his fist!" the defense rises immediately from the detained mech being questioned.

"Changing your story so soon, Quick-plot?" Ironhide asks innocently with a sneer clouding his scarred faceplates.

Sentinel looks to the H.T., "You previously stated the he had slammed your helm against the wall to render you unconscious."

"Helm injuries can make one not completely aware of what happened!" Quick-plot bellows, ardently protecting his image.

"Are you stating that you are unstable?" Sonic-blaster asks.

"No!"

"Then what are you saying, slagger?!" Ironhide growls, his grip on the detained mech's arm tightening fractionally in irritation at the yelling.

Prowl hurriedly interjects where there is a brief pause in the arguing and his words make all defenses from Quick-plot die, "Also there are paint marks on the wall to verify that Quick-plot's helm did indeed hit the wall, but not at such a great of force that he claims or that could come even close to leaving him unconscious."

Sentinel Prime draws up to his full height, a righteous anger storming across his faceplates, "Quick-plot, have you any defense for yourself?" No answer, only a look of shame. Sentinel can instantly tell that he isn't ashamed of his actions, he is embarrassed for getting caught. It takes every bit of self-control the Prime has not to subspace his energon blaster and send the wretched mech before him to meet Unicron in the Pit. Instead he calmly speaks, "Are you guilty of secretly allowing access of the base to our enemy?" Still no word from the accused and the Prime narrows his optics, "I take your silence as an admission of your guilt."

Quick-plot looks up and scowls at Sentinel's faceplates, "Go to the Pit."

Ironhide kicks the back of the prisoner's leg earning a cry of pain from the turncoat, "That's 'go to the Pit, Prime' to you, traitor."

"Ironhide," Sentinel's rebuke doesn't hold a sharp edge but Ironhide backs off just the same. Sentinel glances sideways at Optimus who looks curious as to how his father will handle this. He must teach him through observation; he must teach his son to be fair, "Quick-plot, as a result of your actions I strip you of your rank as the Head Tactician of the Iacon base. You will be held for further questioning until you can prove your innocence or the day that you are placed on trial formally." There is a lull in the older Prime's words as he stares in disappointment at the mech before him that he considered as a friend and ally for so long. When Sentinel speaks again his vocals are stiff, but bespeak the betrayal that he feels, "You are a disgrace to the blue in your sight and a shame to the insignia you bare on your shoulder. A dishonor to your faction…"

Quick-plot's glare lowers to genuine mortification for a moment at the chastisement his old friend is giving him. His blue optics shutter briefly before the scowl whips back onto his faceplate and he raises his chin willfully.

"Take him to the brig."

Ironhide grabs his left arm and Sonic-blaster his right, he is roughly pulled to his pedes. Quick-plot makes himself look at each mech in the faceplates with no remorse on his own. It is hard, almost impossible, but he does it.

Sentinel Prime looks at him with disappointment clearly charted on every line of his war-weary features, his blue optics bore deep into Quick-plot's own and he seems to see into his very spark. Quick-plot glances away involuntarily and struggles to meet the next bot's gaze.

Ultra Magnus. The raw fury that engulfs the young mech's faceplates makes the traitor want to turn and run for all he is worth away from this outraged Autobot. He can feel the rage vibrating off of the officer as his wardens march him pass the wrath-filled, trembling mech.

Quick-plot forces his gaze toward Piston. Piston is still painfully angry. Quick-plot's former S.I.C. stares stonily back at him, forcing him to look elsewhere.

Red Alert. The H.O.S. looks ready to rip him a new tailpipe. Fear for his fellow Iacon comrades fills the security bot's demeanor as he watches Quick-plot being lead to his holding cell.

Prowl. Quick-plot scowls deeply at his former apprentice and the Praxian just stares back at him expressionlessly. Indifference is layered in the cold optics that examines him as he is being lead to his fate.

As Quick-plot lifts his optics to the last mech that is watching him, his quest to look everyone in the faceplates seems almost unbearable. The mixed assortment of contained emotions that flit across Optimus Prime's facial plates take him only a moment to decipher as a tactical mech, and when he does, Quick-plot suddenly wishes he didn't. Betrayal, hurt, anger, and… pity? What?! Why?

_Pity because he knows what the Autobots will do to you. Pity because he knows what direction you're going toward in your life… because he knows what you just willingly gave up, even though you don't._

Quick-plot tears his optics away from the younger Prime's entrancing gaze and walks sullenly with Ironhide and Sonic-blaster. He can feel the penetrating stares as soon as they step out of the Tactical Office. He can hear the whispers of astonishment that the H.T. of the Iacon base is being arrested. Quick-plot scowls at the Autobots around him that dare gawk at him in this predicament.

The prisoner takes careful note of the bots around him and their reaction to the sight of the Head Tactician being lead to the brig in stasis cuffs. A light blue, rough looking femme looks slightly amused, the darker blue femmeling beside her is intrigued. A scarlet mech that looks like he was recently injured stands next to them both, regarding him warily. The camouflage scout Quick-plot remembers as Hound appears uneasy.

Quick-plot focuses his optics on his destined path suddenly unable to keep looking at the questioning gazes and worried faceplates. Many of them he knows personally. How will they react when they know the truth about why he is being taken to the brig?

They will be angry.

Quick-plot holds back a snort as they enter the brig and make their way down the aisles of holding cells. Let them be angry, Ultra Magnus was furious and he has managed through that frightening ordeal with only a few dents and dings, he can survive a few Autobots' ire.

Ironhide stops him suddenly, "Here you are." Sonic-blaster opens the cell and the black weapons specialist shoves Quick-plot into the holding jail. The tactician staggers slightly from the shove and winces at the loud clang as the door slams shut. Ironhide's fierce blue gaze glares through the bars at him along with Sonic-blaster's let down, surly optics.

Sonic-blaster's heated faceplates shoot one last disappointed scowl at him before the S.I.C. turns and leaves. Ironhide remains behind for a few moments longer and Quick-plot suddenly grows wary. The weapons specialist is renowned for his infamous temper and willingness to beat the slag out of other mechs when they provoke his pit of wrath.

Ironhide stares silently through the bars for a few nano-kliks _(1 nano-klik= 1 earth second)_ more before speaking, his vocals low and dangerous, "I hope whatever they promised you is worth all this, 'cause there's no going back." The mech turns to the side to leave but then pauses and spits at the ground toward the tactician disgustedly, "Decepticon scum."

Quick-plot's spark twists at those words and he watches the black mech's bulky frame as he saunters out of the brig. The dim light in his cell casts a dark mood in the tactician. Inwardly he curses Ironhide for causing his downward attitude spiral.

Ironhide wasn't right. He isn't Decepticon scum. The pure hate that had radiated from the bulky mech's optics is usually reserved for the most despised Cons, and he isn't one of them. Ironhide is wrong. He has to be. But there is one thing that the weapons specialist had right, if nothing else. There is no going back.

*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*

_Yay! Quick-plot's wicked deeds have been discovered! Never again will he be able to trick the Autobots! NEVER! _

_Anyway, thank you to all who read. And to those who review, I sincerely love you. I am an author who basks in the praises of readers... and I will resort to begging with puppy eyes if I have to. So Read and Review if you like and let me know if there is something wrong. Bye-Bye until next Monday :D _


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: Me no own Transformers.**

_Okay. This. Is. The. Third. Time. I. Have. Tried. To. Write. My. Author's. Note. I think maybe I should give up. My computer keeps zapping my note. I think my computer is a Decepticon... anyway so sorry the chapter is so short. I hope you all like it anyway. Please R and R._

_A huge THANK YOU to cottoncandy903 who helped get me out of my writing slump by cursing Quick-plot in Cybertronian... never knew that would be inspiring, but it was. I don't know why. But thanks anyway, I am on fire now! _

**C****hapter Eight**

Ironhide clenches his fists as he exits the brig. His fury boils dangerously close to the surface and is about to bubble over. He had about lost it back there, when he was alone with Quick-plot. He had been on a hair-trigger and he fears that if the tactician would have spoken to him he would have shot the mech in the faceplates. No, he has more control then that. But Primus, he wanted to shoot that fragger so bad it hurt!

As he walks back toward the Tactical Office he slows his fast pace. He really didn't want to go back in there. It is going to be pit dealing with the ruckus that slagging glitch in the brig stirred up. It is going to turn out to be a long solar cycle_ (day)_ for Ironhide.

"Hey mech!" A femme's vocals reach the bulky black mech's audios and he turns in irritation. His optics zone in to the source of his annoyance and he narrows his gaze at the femme. "Don't tell me that after only about a couple of joors _(1 joor=6.5 earth hrs)_ you've already forgotten me." The light blue femme tries to sound offended as she approaches with a darker blue femmeling hanging onto her left leg.

Ironhide's facial recognition kicks in then. That femme from the battlefield! His spark pulse jumps drastically and he quickly hides his surprise and wonderment that after such a short period of time she is already wondering around the base. His optics fall down to the youngling clinging fiercely onto the femme's leg and he grunts a short 'no' to indicate that he had not forgotten her.

"Good," she says sharply, and it becomes clear that she wasn't pretending when she sounded offended, "So what's going on?" She jerks her helm in the direction that they had taken Quick-plot and Ironhide looks at her warily. Why did she want to know? "Don't give me that look, mech. If it's sensitive information then I understand. All you got to do is say so."

"It's sensitive information," his words come out a lot more grouchy then he wanted and the femme raises her optic ridge at him with a laugh. His gears feel odd at her laughter and his helm feels lighter for some reason. Angrily he forces himself to focus on her as her laughter dies down. At least she didn't take his gruffness too seriously. Most bots would have turned and left already for fear of their well-being.

"You're the weapons specialist, right?" the way she utters the words 'weapons specialist' made it sound like she is in awe of the title.

Ironhide squashes the urge to smile, "Yes."

"I heard that you train younger bots how to shoot and I wanted to ask you if you would be willing to teach my sister, Arcee," the femme gestures down to the femmeling that sticks even closer to her leg. "Just to help her get out of her shell and learn how to use a firing weapon if it ever comes to that."

Ironhide looks back down at 'Arcee' and cocks an optic ridge at her smallness. When his gaze travels back to the older femme he almost springs back in alarm. When she had noticed his scrutinizing look over of her sibling the femme's armor had flared in warning to him. If he makes any comment she deems out of line the femme is going to jump all over him like scraplets on a bot.

Instead of doing what she expected him to he shrugs, "Sure, the next time I give Springer a lesson she can come along. I can't tell you exactly when that will be though, Springer's…" he hesitates and the femme's gaze sharpens at the pause, "not at my disposal at the moment."

"Alright," she says with a tight smile he guesses is reserved for bots she isn't comfortable with, "just let us know when the next lesson is."

Ironhide nods in agreement and watches as she leads her sister away. The femme pauses momentarily as she rejoins a scarlet mech he recognizes from the battlefield as Underhand, "The designation is Chromia, by the way."

Ironhide's whole frame feels as flighty as a micro-fly as he brands her designation into his processor to remember until the cycle_(day)_ he offlines. He is about to open his mouthplates and say 'I'm Ironhide' but clamps his denta together to prevent the foolish action.

"You're Ironhide, right?"

How did she know?! He grunts an acknowledgement to hide the thrill that he suddenly feels. What in the name of Primus is wrong with him?! He might be coming down with a virus. Yeah, that would explain why his spark felt like it was fluttering and out of control. It might be something worse… maybe a spark attack or something like that. He really needs to go see Ratchet and get a checkup. That old slagger will probably keep him in there for a whole cycle_(day)_ though if he goes in willingly and asks for a checkup. No, he will just hope for the best with his spark trouble.

"Thought so," Chromia says a more genuine smile tracing her lip plates before she turns and walk away leaving a light-helmed mech standing behind her. His spark does a flop in his chest and Ironhide rubs his chest armor to soothe the fluttering.

He is going to go see Ratchet.

Ironhide sends a private comm ping to Sentinel.

: Yes, Ironhide? :

: Prime, do you require me back at the Tactical Office? : Ironhide hopes that he doesn't.

: No, I have dismissed the council for the moment in light of the current situation. We all needed a small time in which to think and perhaps come up with a solution to our problem. :

Ironhide bites back a vent of relief, : Alright, Ironhide out. : He turns and walks quickly toward the Med Bay his spark still pulsing irregularly. When he reaches the Med Bay he pauses at the doors and wonders if he is losing his processor. Ratchet is going to scan every little piece of metal on his frame if he goes in there and says he doesn't feel the best.

With a steel determination he pushes open the door and surveys the area for the stingy medic he is looking for. Ratchet turns from where he is bending over a patient and they lock optics. Ratchet's gaze narrows harshly.

"Ironhide?" the question in his voice is not missed by the weapons specialist.

"Ratchet," Ironhide greets the medic carefully, "I have been experiencing some…" he pauses, unsure of how to describe the little pangs of fuzziness that flits across his spark.

"Wait… you willingly came to me to ask if you are physically functional?" Ratchet gapes in astonishment and bewilderment. A laugh suddenly erupts from the medic's vocals and is quickly silenced as he glances toward his many patients lying on berths recharging. "Did you royally crack your processor, Ironhide?"

Ironhide growls, "Never mind."

As he turns to leave Ratchet grabs his arm, "Ahhh, bup, bup, bup! You sit your aft down on my examination berth right now so I can run scans to check on your health!" The C.M.O. shoves Ironhide toward the examination berth and Ironhide suddenly wishes he never would have thought of coming to Ratchet. Besides the funny pings in his spark have stopped, so now he is in here for nothing.

As Ratchet fusses and scans and does whatever it is Ratchet does, Ironhide's processings turn back to Chromia. He really doesn't know why he agreed to train the femmeling that was clinging to the older bot's leg armor. It is probably going to turn into a huge pain in his aft to teach her, femme bots tend to be on the more trigger-happy side.

Ironhide lies back on the medical berth and decides that is probably what is going to cause his lights to go out when his time comes. A fembot will do it. He already knows that any mech that ever tries to take him out will not send him to the Well without tagging along too. But a femme? _Primus created a_ _wily creature when he created femmes_, Ironhide decides. They are volatile over half of the time and could go from a sweet-spark to an energon thirsty Pit-spawn in nano-kliks.

Chromia is especially hard to read. Her optics are constantly wary of him when she is close to him and she always appears to have her armor flared in suspicion. She is a kind fembot at spark; that he can tell, and her faceplates hold a beauty he has never seen equaled, in his opinion.

The funny feeling in his spark returns and he glances at Ratchet, who's optics sharpen when he hears the beeping of the spark pulse monitor hasten. The medic looks at the monitor then at Ironhide in curiosity.

"This is strange," Ratchet mumbles, "I've already checked your spark and it was fine, but now…"

"What?" Ironhide sits up on the berth and strains to stare at the monitor, "What wrong with it?"

Ratchet cocks his helm inquisitively, "Your spark pulse has just sky rocketed, and for no apparent reason might I add. This is very strange. Have you taken in any peculiar energon lately, anything odd tasting?"

"No."

"When did these pulse spikes begin?"

Ironhide is silent for a moment before he answers, "After Metropolis."

"Hmm," Ratchet crosses one arm over his chest armor and rubs his chin with his servo, "Strange indeed… were you injured on the battlefield?"

"Only surface wounds," Ironhide replies to the C.M.O., somewhat proud of the accomplishment.

"So that would rule out any new medication…" Ratchet hums thoughtfully to himself and swivels on his pedes to pace back and forth in his bum puzzlement. The medic turns and stares back at Ironhide for a moment and a smile creeps onto his faceplates. "Have you found processing difficult lately?"

Ironhide nods, "At times."

"Uhuh… just since Metropolis?"

"Yes."

"Huh…" Ratchet turns back to him, "These feelings in your spark—"

"They aren't just feelings! They are pains!" Ironhide corrects the C.M.O. vehemently.

Ratchet waves a servo dismissively, "Of course, and these 'pains' could be described as?"

Ironhide thinks for a moment feeling slightly perplexed as he discovers that the racing in his spark has stopped again, "Like my spark is going to hammer straight out of my chassis, or it feels like it is expanding. There are sometimes little stings, and then it does this weird…" Ironhide flops his servo to demonstrate what he meant.

"So, it flutters?"

A mischievous look crosses the medic's faceplates and he faces the black mech before him fully, a smirk coming into play, "Have you met any femmes lately, Ironhide?" The question is sly, and seemingly guiltless as can be.

Ironhide's thoughts involuntarily swing back toward Chromia. Yes, he had met a femme, but what did that have to do with anything? A strange noise catches the gruff mech's attention and his focus turns toward the annoying sound. It is the spark pulse monitor and it is once again beeping wildly.

"It is happening again," Ironhide points out.

Ratchet hums and crosses his arms, "Indeed it is. You haven't answered my question though." The other mech stares at the medical bot innocently. Ratchet narrows his optics, "Have you met any femmes?"

The monitor picks up even more speed and Ironhide contemplates pulling the readers off of his chest plates to get rid of that infernal beeping, "Yes, but that does not have anything to do with the current situation."

"Really? What is her designation?"

"Do you make it a habit to gossip with every patient you have?" Ironhide grouches in irritation as the monitor's beeping grows in frequency. Ratchet smiles and lifts his optic ridge to indicate he isn't going to let it drop. The black mech growls in impatience, it will be easier just to tell the medic, "Chromia."

The stupid beeping doubles, if that is at all possible. Ironhide rips the readers from his chest plates and throws the atrocious wiring to the floor in relief. Quietness fills the Med Bay and the black mech relishes in the silence.

"Well…" the C.M.O. mutters looking down at the readers, "I believe I know what is wrong."

Ironhide straightens and stares intently at the medic. There is a long period of silence and the bigger mech frowns as his optics bore into the medic's own. "Am I offlining?"

"Not hardly," the C.M.O. snorts before turning all business, "In observing the spike in your spark pulse, and taking careful note of when it began and when it slowed, I realized that it only happens when speaking of femmes…" Ratchet's optic ridge rises even higher as he looks at Ironhide, who is sending a full blown glare back at him. "Particularly, this new femme that you just met, and if I had to make a call on what it is you are experiencing, I would have to say—"

Ironhide slings his pedes over the side of the berth and drops to the ground, "I've heard enough, Ratchet."

"Up, bup, bup, sit back down!" Ironhide does so, but against his will. "I would have to say that what you are feeling is an attraction toward this fembot." Ironhide can feel heat travel up his frame, but it isn't anger that is causing it.

"How do I get rid of it?" Ironhide growls his optics narrowing.

"You can't just get rid of it! What are you, an over grown mechling?!"

The black mech stares back, not amused, "How can I subdue it?"

"You can't just, ugh!" Ratchet waves his arms above his helm in exasperation. The medic calms himself after muttering some choice words at the mech before him, "fine then, if you are so pit slagging bent on getting rid of your feelings, then just avoid her. Stay busy, ignore her, don't talk to her, whatever!"

Ironhide slides off the medical berth and smiles at the C.M.O., "Thank you, Ratchet." His words are dripping with false appreciation.

"You're welcome, Ironhide," the medic's vocals are equally disdainful. The weapons specialist turns and walks quickly toward the Med Bay exit when Ratchet's voice stops him, "Ironhide?" The mech swivels with a grunt. "If Sentinel Prime does not need you then…" the medic hesitates as if rethinking what he wants to ask.

"Yeah?"

"Then maybe you could take Springer to the training hanger," the C.M.O.'s optic ridge furrows in question and a silent plea for Ironhide to say yes.

Ironhide glances around the Med Bay suddenly filled with guilt for not looking in on his student earlier. The moment that he heard the youngling was hurt he should have come; but with Hot Rod missing, with the whole Quick-plot ordeal, and the meeting with Sentinel he just… hadn't found the time. More guilt touches the black mech as his cobalt optics find the youngling lying on a medical berth curled up like a sparkling. The mechling's whole frame quivers in silent cries as he restlessly recharges.

"Are you sure, Ratchet?" Ironhide asks as he takes in Springer's terribly pitiful condition. "Is he ready for that?"

"Honestly," the C.M.O. mutters as he turns to look at the green and white youngling also, "it might be the only thing that will do him good right now.

Ironhide nods trying to hide the sudden shame that fills him in light of his failure to recall to check in on Springer. The weapons specialist glances at Ratchet before replying brusquely, "All right then. You can send him on down to the training hanger in about a breem or so." Ratchet shoots him a questioning look and the black mech supplies him an answer, "I've got to go pick up another youngling that wants to train and since Springer won't have a sparring partner I figure I'll just put them together for now."

"He won't think that you're trying to replace Hot Rod will he?"

Ironhide blinks… he hadn't thought of that. He glances back to where Springer has gone quiet on his berth and says, "I'll make it clear that it is a temporary arrangement."

Ratchet harrumphs, "You'd better. If you send back a squalling, blubbering youngling that thinks everyone is already forgetting about his friend then I'll weld your helm to your aft."

"I wouldn't expect anything less, Ratchet." Ironhide gives the C.M.O. a smirk before turning and walking toward the youngling's berth. "Springer, get your lazy aft up," he growls rather roughly at the mechling.

Springer's helm snaps erect followed promptly by his mainframe at the sound of his mentor's vocals. He jumps off the med bay berth, his lip plates flitting with a tiny, ghost of a wince. Ironhide hears Ratchet grumble from behind him at the little mechling's slight pain.

"Where are we going, sir?" Springer asks his vocal processor wobbling slightly with his highly unstable emotions.

"Training," the large weapons specialist answers, leaving no room for the many questions or arguments clear in the youngling's optics.

Springer follows the large black mech out of Med Bay with downcast optics. Did this mean that Hot Rod wasn't coming back? The light green mechling's spark convulses at the awful thought. Sentinel Prime wouldn't leave his youngest creation to the mercy of his demented oldest creation would he? Springer holds back a wave of fresh tears for Ironhide has no patience for tears he deems unnecessary.

Ironhide can hear Springer's armor plating rattle as the youngling follows him obediently. This training session is probably going to end in disaster… Springer will more than likely come back to the Med Bay bawling and then the weapons specialist is going to have pit to pay. Ratchet won't precisely stick to his words about welding his helm to his aft, but Ironhide will definitely have new dents from the medic's wrench.

The young femmeling, Arcee will not have a pleasant first training lesson. The black mech wouldn't be surprised if after this one she never showed up again. Just as well, fembots are usually hard to train. Mostly because they don't listen.

Ironhide frowns as he sends a comm-link ping to Red Alert.

: Red? :

: Yes, Ironhide? :

: I need you to find someone for me on the security cameras. :

Ironhide could hear the suspicion seeping into the security bot's vocals as he replies, : Why? Is something wrong? Is there a threat on the base? :

: No, nothing like that. I just need to find a femme. :

: Don't we all? : Red Alert gripes and Ironhide is speechless at the young H.O.S.'s words. The security bot is quiet for a brief moment and then asks, : Okay, designation? :

: Chromia. She just got here last lunar cycle_(night)_ from Metropolis. :

There is a brief silence on the comm link and Ironhide pauses in his walking to wait on Red Alert's reply. A smirk appears on the black mech's faceplates as he imagines the security bot looking at every scanner in his usual half panicked manner. : Ironhide? :

: Yes? :

: Your femme is in the rec room refueling with a femmeling that the reports reveal to be her sister, designation Arcee. She has just gotten her rations for herself and the youngling so she will be there for a few more breems_(1 breem= 8.3 earth min.)_. :

For some reason Ironhide enjoys the sound of Chromia being called his femme. He quickly and brutally offlines the feeling. : Comm. her and tell her I want Arcee in training hanger 2 in less than a breem_(8.3 earth min.)_, : Ironhide orders rather roughly in light of his latest and oddest processing to date. He decides he has been rude to the security bot for no reason so he adds, : Thanks, Red. : There is no answer. Instead the H.O.S. just cuts the link short and the comm line goes silent.

"Who will I be training with?" Ironhide can hear the tremble of bottled tears in the youngling's vocals as Springer asks his question nervously.

"A femme designated, Arcee,"

Springer wanted terribly to tell Ironhide he didn't feel like training, that he just wanted to curl up on a berth in a corner of the med bay and cry himself into recharge. But instead he stays mute as he follows Ironhide obediently. Hot Rod was the only one brave enough, no, stupid enough to talk back to their teacher.

"Have you cleaned your cannons lately?" the weapon specialist asks his student as they sit in the training arena, waiting patiently for Arcee to arrive.

Springer sheepishly hangs his helm, "No," he says sorrowfully.

"Have you since I showed you how?" Ironhide asks his optic ridge rises slightly. Springer's helm hangs lower and he merely shakes it unable to look into his mentor's disappointed optics. "Why don't you clean them right now while I watch?" Ironhide suggests in gruff gentleness, sensing the youngling is near tears.

The mechling nods and quickly sprints for the weapon's corner of the arena. He grabs the cleaning tools from a small closet in the corner and hurries back to the training mat where his tutor is waiting.

For the next half breem _(8.3 earth min.)_, Ironhide coaches Springer through a thorough cleaning of his subspace cannons. The mechling is so absorbed in the task he momentarily forgets the events of the past few cycles_(days)_. The black mech gives the youngling a nod of approval just as the hanger doors open allowing entrance to two femmes. Ironhide gestures toward the small closet with his helm in silent command to put the cleaning supplies back where he had found them.

Springer obeys quickly and returns to his teacher's side immediately just as the femmes come to a stop in front of them. He looks over the younger one with interested optics.

She is dark blue and light pink with a slim, agile looking mainframe. _She's pretty,_ Springer decides with embarrassment heating his mainframe at his odd observation. She will no doubt grow into a fierce beautiful femme warrior by the fighting spirit glowing through her electric blue optics.

"Arcee, Springer. Springer, Arcee," Ironhide introduces them quickly with no ado, "You will be sparring partners until such a time as I say you are not. Understood?" Both younglings nod quickly.

Springer fights the urge to ask about Hot Rod and if he is going to come back. No, this is a training session all emotions must be absent. This would have to include guilt and worry for his friend.

"Good, let's get started," Ironhide says not sparing even a glance at the older femme. Arcee and Springer trail after him unquestioningly, both casting curious optics toward one another.

The older fembot's vocals sound strongly behind them, "Would you mind if I stay and watch?"

Ironhide's back struts stiffen involuntarily. There is no answer for a couple of nano-kliks_(1 nano-klik= 1 earth second)_ and Springer frowns slightly before glancing back at the lighter blue femme who is waiting for his mentor's okay with a smile on her lip plates. She looks as if she already knows what the black mech's reply will be.

"Yes."

The smile slips from the femme's faceplates and her optics narrow at Ironhide's rudeness, "Very well then." Springer can hear the tone of an exceedingly formal noble fembot slip into the femme's vocals as she responds to the youngling's mentor, "When can I expect you will be done?"

"I'll have Red Alert comm you," he grunts shortly without turning to face her. The big black mech wishes intently that Chromia would just leave; his spark pulse is speeding up into a rapid triple beat and he has slight fear that he is going to flat line if it doesn't slow to a normal pace soon. A communication link request pings in his processor and his frame becomes so rigid that Prowl would be proud. Chromia has sent a communication linkage request to him… Panic fills the bulky mech's being for a nano-klik_(1 earth second)_ before he forces himself into calmness. Without flinching in the least, he accepts the link.

: Comm line check. Can you hear me? : Chromia's vocals, her beautiful, flawless, noble vocals sound through the newly established comm.

Ironhide grunts and continues walking then, the younglings trailing behind him looking puzzled.

: I expect you to comm me when the lesson is over so I can come collect my sister. : Ironhide ignores the message and refuses to look back, his spark pulsing wildly in his chest at the sound of her 'voice' in his audios. He hears her turn huffily and stomp unceremoniously out of the hanger door. Maybe he had been a bit rude…

O#O#O#O#O#O#O#O#O#O

_Oh Ironhide... A bit rude? You poor poopsie, you're in deep, deep slag. There is no getting away from this one. _


	9. Chapter 9

_**Disclaimer: Komanah24 does not own the Transformers... no matter how much she wants to.**_

_I went to theaters to see Thor: The Dark World and it was epic. I swooned over Thor, and fell in love with Loki... And then I realized that I must update so here I am. I am truly sorry about this, but this chapter is also rather short. I didn't realize that it was until I put it up. My bad. Forgive me?_

_Anyway, once again this first part is for you Starscream sympathizers out there that may read this. Look for Soundwave's hilarity on his video making. He has quite the filmography skills. (You'll get what I mean when you read... he, he) Please Read Review. Reviews make me happy and make me want to write faster and better. Kind of like Mike and his Steam-shovel... that was random. -_- _

**Chapter Nine**

Megatron is irritated to say the least. Things are not going the way he planned! He must admit it was a bit short-sighted of him not to anticipate the Autobots blowing the Metropolian base, but that doesn't stop him from being angry about it. He needed the base to be functioning to put the next part of his plot in motion as fast as possible.

_But since it wasn't_, Megatron glances over his shoulder armor with a scowl and Soundwave stares back at him. To say that he needs the Communications Officer with him now that the base isn't functioning is an understatement. _And since Soundwave is needed_, Megatron huffs and glares over his other shoulder at the mech on his left, _Starscream must come also._

There was absolutely no way the warlord was going to let the seeker to his own devices back at Kaon. Hence the trio steps out of the ground bridge at Metropolis, Megatron in the lead with Soundwave and Starscream behind him.

Galvatron is there to greet them with an evil smile upon his faceplates, "Megatron, you've outdone yourself conquering such a great city!" His vocals are colored with a youngling-like delight of having Metropolis all to his own.

Starscream grumbles and mutters lowly behind the smaller of the two leading Decepticons. It wasn't Megatron who defeated Metropolis, it was him! Megatron didn't lose precious energon, he did! Megatron never fired one shot, while he, the mighty Starscream, offlined countless outside this very city. And yet who is being praised for the Autobots' evacuation of Metropolis?

The seeker glares holes into the back of his leader. He served Megatron well for many vorns _(1 vorn= 83 earth yrs.)_, and then the mech has the nerve to demote him to Third in Command! And promoted Nighthawk, of all mechs, in his place!

"I trust you are repairing the damages to the gate that the army breached?" Megatron's rumbling voice brings the seeker out of his wallowing self-pity. Starscream scowls; no doubt Megatron thinks that the city could have been crippled without blowing up the gate as he had done.

"Yes, I have mechs working on it now," Galvatron replies easily before glancing at Soundwave curiously, "Why the extra reinforcements?"

A chuckle escapes Megatron's vocals at his counterparts choice of words, it is clear that Galvatron does not trust him, "Nighthawk informed me via comm link that the Communications Center of the base are destroyed. Since communications are Soundwave specialty… he is needed."

Starscream feels an immature jealousy well up inside of him when Galvatron doesn't even glance at him. Apparently the mech doesn't see him as a threat. The T.I.C. grits his denta and remains silent in his ire. Starscream can see Nighthawk approaching them with an easy smile playing on his lip plates. Call it sparkling behavior if you will, but the seeker has always been envious of the bigger black mech's likable attitude. It seems as if nothing the new S.I.C. has ever done can make Megatron lose his temper.

But when Starscream slips up? The seeker flinches as his processing inadvertently opens old memory files of his many beatings courtesy of the 'Lord High Protector'. Soundwave catches the movement from Starscream and blankly turns his visor toward the seeker to observe his odd behavior. Starscream scowls at the C.O. and focuses back on Nighthawk.

Some solar cycle_ (day)_ he will get his rank back from that pit spawn. Some solar cycle_ (day)_ he, the great Starscream, will rise up to be the Second in Command of the Decepticon faction. No matter what it takes, he will get his position back from that accursed black mech. Even if he must assassinate him. Starscream smirks to himself, he has a few plans that he was going to save for Megatron, but since Nighthawk is the S.I.C. then Nighthawk must be eliminated first. It would do the seeker no good to offline Megatron only to have that wretched mech become the leader of the Decepticons.

As Nighthawk approaches the mechs, the ground bridge behind his leader closes, "Lord Megatron," the S.I.C. greets the warlord formally with a dip of his helm. Starscream stares at the black mech with contempt hidden in his crimson optics. How is the seeker suppose to gain Megatron's favor over Nighthawk if the mech insists on being such a kiss-aft? That is exactly what Megatron desires in his officers, the leader-type that will boost his volcano of never-ending egotistical arrogance. Nighthawk doesn't mind doing that, Starscream does...

"Nighthawk, where is the prisoner?" Megatron asks suddenly ignoring Galvatron.

Nighthawk smiles slightly at the Con's anxiety, and Starscream fights the stupid urge to make a sour face at him "He is in the section of the base's brig that wasn't destroyed by the blast that the Autobots set off. Off-liner is guarding him now with four of Galvatron's warriors."

Megatron glances toward Galvatron who stares back at him. The taller Decepticon merely asks, "He is high priority, is he not?"

"Yes," Megatron says, not quite sure if he should be relieved or suspicious that Nighthawk managed to get Galvatron to put some of his force on guard duty. Starscream takes careful note of the distrust in the warlord's vocals, he doesn't trust Nighthawk as fully as the seeker has previously assumed. The seeker mech blinks thoughtfully, Megatron's distrust is not what intrigues him, but rather he is captivated by the hint of... dare he say fear?

Fear of what? Fear that Nighthawk will smother him with his kiss-aftery? Starscream shoos away the sarcastic thoughts and focuses on his 'master' to try and decipher this odd display of emotions he is detecting from the warlord.

Nighthawk then turns to Megatron and speaks quickly, "My Lord? With you, myself, Soundwave and Starscream here, who did you leave in charge of the base at Kaon?" Megatron stares at the black mech with slight distrust in his ruby colored glare, and Starscream blinks at the severity of the glare directed at the new S.I.C. while Nighthawk frowns at the warlord's delayed answer, "My liege?"

"That does not concern you at the moment, Nighthawk," Megatron growls.

A knowing simper travels across Starscream's faceplates. _Lord_ Megatron is fearful of Nighthawk's commanding air and the seeker must admit, very grudgingly, that the Second does indeed hold a superiority that challenges the warlord with his very presence. Maybe Starsream will be able to use this slight mistrust to push Nighthawk back to the rank of Third in Command without having to snuff his spark. Starscream must admit that having Nighthawk as his own Second when the seeker's time comes to be leader to kiss his aft as expertly as the black mech is currently doing to Megatron seems appealing.

Megatron speaks once again to the confused Nighthawk, "Take me to the youngling. It is time to set the next part of my plan in motion."

"And what exactly is the next part of your scheme, Megatron?" Galvatron asks, his optics narrowing toward his equal in sudden wariness as Nighthawk starts toward the brig with Megatron trailing behind him. A silent Soundwave and a smirking Starscream are only a few paces after them.

A gravelly laugh escapes Megatron's vocal emitter and he answers the larger of the two leaders without slowing his walk in the least, "You might want to get that gate rebuilt sooner than later."

*Y*Y*Y*Y*Y*Y*Y*

Prowl glances over at Piston who is still running statistics on how long Quick-plot has been feeding intel to the Decepticons. The former S.I.C. of the traitor was named Head Tactician by Sentinel Prime immediately following Quick-plot's march to the brig.

"Slag it all!" Piston roars suddenly, startling Prowl and all the other tacticians that had come back to work after the Prime's council had gone.

"Sir?" Prowl asks quickly.

Piston shakes his helm ruefully with a forced laugh, "Now that I've looked for it, I've seen a pattern. All of those times that we were in the complete wrong place when Megatron attacked, guess who was directing us?" Prowl doesn't answer because he already knows, he did the calculation many times since Quick-plot had been brigged. Piston angrily slams his fisted servo onto the wall that still had the traitor's paint flaked on it, "That Unicron-glitched fragger, that's who!"

Prowl remains mute and merely watches the still seething tactician. It wasn't logical for the mech to still be so angry when all there is to be done is find a tactical solution to their current problem. To be completely truthful, Prowl really doesn't know if Sentinel is even going to send a rescue for his creation. The older Prime appeared rather resigned to the idea that his youngest had been taken by his eldest creation.

"How long do you think he has been giving information to Megatron?" Piston asks, bitterness seeping into his vocals.

"Starting from the span of the last five attacks on the surrounding cities that we tried to prevent or otherwise counter." Piston stares at him and Prowl realizes with concealed embarrassment that he had forgotten to add a respectful title in his reply. The Praxian's doorwings dip apologetically and he says quickly to rectify his wrong, "Sir."

"You already went over all of that data, didn't you?" Piston mutters sounding slightly invidious and amazed at the same time. The H.T. feels minor relief and maybe a little sadness for his newly acquired rank as the realization dawns on him that this young Praxian before him will probably soon be his superior officer in the Tactical Office.

Prowl blinks, "Yes sir."

A vent erupts from the older mech and his blue gaze travels along the wall, purposely skipping the black and grey paint marks, to land on the light green paint that scared the place where the youngling Springer had been thrown. Piston's optics rest there for a moment before turning back to Prowl, "Back when he wasn't, you know…" the tactician's vocals falter slightly. The newly appointed H.T. gestures roughly in the direction of the brig, "Before he went sour, he and I were good friends. He always spoke highly of you, Prowl."

The Praxian blinks again but stays silent as the H.T. stares at him.

Piston continues speaking, "He always was a good judge of tactical potential, and he told me you would be one of the best. Since that was before…"Piston waves his servo in a disgusted manner, "all this slag going on now, I guess I can take his opinion at face value."

"Thank you, sir," Prowl says, not quite sure what the mech is saying.

Piston gives a short smile to the Praxian, "All right then, I spoke Sentinel Prime after I was made Head Tactician and I let him know that I have recommendation for my Second in Command. He agreed fully, so I guess you will need the officer decorations for the rank. I get on Commander Sonic-blaster about that as soon as I can."

The Praxian's doorwings flick rigidly upward, "Sir?" Did his audios serve him correctly? Did Piston just say he recommended him, _Prowl_, to Sentinel Prime as the tactical S.I.C.?! That couldn't be right could it? Prowl blinks once more in confusion.

"Sir," a tactical mech Prowl recalls as Strategist calls to Piston, "We have an incoming encrypted video feed."

Piston whirls, snapping into command mode and leaves Prowl standing statue still, "Origins?"

"Unknown, though they bare a remarkable resemblance to Soundwave's work."

"That fragger, it's only been one full cycle and he's already sending ransom messages," Piston snarls before comming Sentinel Prime. : Sentinel Prime, come in. :

: Yes Piston? :

: We've got an encrypted message with the Decepticon smell all over it, most likely a ransom. :

: Don't decode it until Communications Officer, Blaster takes a look at it. It could be holding a virus that could cripple our tech. He was not able to be at the council so when he arrives inform him of the current developments. Contact me when you find anything out. Prime out. :

Piston blinks at the abruptness and turns quickly to find Prowl staring at him in a disturbingly shocked way. Ignoring the younger mech for a second Piston hurriedly shouts out orders to the other tacticians, "All right, keep clear of the feed. We're bringing in the one of the communication bots." Piston glances back toward the Praxian doorwinger that is still standing stock-still and says quickly, "Prowl, comm Blaster and tell him to get his aft up here now!" Prowl nods and his optics grow distant as he send the comm linkage 'ping' to the Autobots' Communication Officer.

: Blaster, come in? : Prowl asks quickly.

: Hello there! What can I do for you? : Blaster answers instantly.

: You're needed in the Tactical Office immediately. : Prowl cuts the line short, unable to think of anything else to tell the cheerful mech. Needless to say, with such a diminutive and abrupt message, with so little information and only an urgent undertone to aid the C.O. in deciphering what he was needed for, it took him only a klik to make it to the Tactical Office.

"What do you need?" Blaster asks, vents heaving as he bursts through the doors of the office.

Piston motions him over, "We got a coded video feed that looks like it might be from Soundwave. Can you take a look at it?"

Blaster nods, a sudden and unexpected professionalism taking over his demeanor, "Sure thing." The C.O. leans over the electronic keys of the large tactical computer that the message had showed up on. His digits fly nimbly over the controls and he types in different things without ever looking away from the screen. Silence is imminent as they watch the communications bot work quickly.

After a long while of listening to Blaster's tippity-tapping, the C.O. pulls back from the keyboard, "Well," he mutters with a vent to Piston, "There's good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

"I could use some good news right now," Piston mutters darkly.

Blaster cocks his helm slightly before speaking, "Well, it doesn't have anything nasty hanging onto it, nothing that even remotely looks like a virus, so it's safe to decode and open up."

"What the Pit is the bad news?"

"You were right about where it came from. There's only one mech who sends out those kinds of encrypted messages," Blaster says looking back toward the computer in irritated awe. "The way that it's encoded, how he managed to slip it into our frequency," dark amazement colors the Communication Officer's vocals.

"Soundwave?" Piston questions with slight dread.

Blaster nods and looks the newly appointed H.T over curiously, "One question." Piston vents and stares back at the mech with a 'go ahead' expression. "Why is Soundwave sending us a video feed?" Piston is silent. Blaster glances over at Prowl, who is standing impassively behind the H.T. "Who are you?"

Prowl fights the urge to scowl at the blunt inquiry, "Tactical Apprent—"

Piston interrupts him quickly, "This is the Tactical Second in Command, Prowl." Right, he had been promoted, Prowl blinks still unbelieveing. That was not a very logical move. Sentinel Prime should not have agreed to put him, the one who made so many beginner mistakes, in second command of the Tactical Office.

"Uh-huh," Blaster says looking the Praxian over from helm to pede, "Does this have something to do with Quick-plot being brigged?"

"Yes," Piston tells the C.O. shortly as they near the touchy subject of the traitor.

Blaster raises his optic ridge and puts his servos up in a placating way, "Okay." The Communications Officer is curious though. It is rare, to the point of never, that the information is so classified that it stays among the highest ranked officers and the tactical bots. He is the C.O., normally he is involved in everything. "Can I stay and watch?" Blaster questions with hopeful optics. It isn't every cycle that he has a piece of Soundwave's work to stare at and grudgingly admire.

Piston looks at Blaster and wonders inwardly how he is going to handle the news about the traitor, "You were aware that Sentinel Prime called a council of close and high ranking, trusted mechs, were you not?"

"Yeah," Blaster answers.

"Where were you at?"

"Is this an interrogation?" the C.O. asks, an easy smile warming his faceplates. When there is no answering grin in return the happiness fades and he replies, "I was talking to the survivors of the Metropolis troops that where still functioning. There weren't many, just two of the higher ranking femmes and a mech. I don't think they even knew they were being debriefed, you know how it is when someone goes through something like that… Why?"

: Blaster? : Piston decides that it will be better to tell him through a private comm line.

: Wow, this is classified. : Blaster's nervous, mechanical 'laugh' floats through the link.

: Were you aware that Megatron infiltrated Iacon during the time that Optimus Prime went to aid Metropolis? :

Blaster frowns deeply, : No, but I figured something bad was going down since Sentinel and Magnus showed up. :

: Megatron took Sentinel Prime's youngest creation, Hot Rod, and presumably, has taken him to Kaon as a prisoner to use against Sentinel. : Outrage mutates onto Blaster's facial plating, his lip plates open to yell something angrily. Piston interrupts whatever words are forming on his glossa, : Quick-plot let him in, so he has been brigged until further notice. : Blaster's almost-roar turns into a squawk of indignation that any self-respecting Autobot would ever dream of doing something so atrocious.

"You may stay and help us decode the encryption, Blaster," Piston says as if he hadn't just revealed that a trusted mech has betrayed thousands upon thousands of unsuspecting Autobots. Blaster only nods numbly.

"You want me to do it?" the C.O. asks and glances at the large, demeaning screen of the computer in front of him with slightly worried, cerulean optics.

Piston firmly nods his helm 'yes', "That is your specialty, is it not?"

"Right, this could take a while," Blaster turns back toward the computer and starts tapping away again. The tedious noise of his own digits striking the key pad makes his optic twitch spasmodically in irritation. The nano-kliks_ (1 nano-klik= 1 earth second)_ slowly pass by and add to a full klik_ (1 klik= 1.2 earth min.)_. _Time is dragging its aft, _Blaster is convinced_, Primus has hit the slow motion button on the universe for his own entertainment._ The kliks_ (1 klik= 1.2 earth min.)_ turn into a breem _(8.3 earth min.)_ and a breem _(8.3 earth min.)_ turns into a joor_ (6.5 earth hr.)_. Blaster feels like he has been at this same project since forever. He glances over his shoulder plating and finds Piston has sat down on an office chair and has fallen into recharge with his helm slumped forward. The picture makes Blaster's lip plating twitch upward into a ghost of a smile. The C.O. would be willing to bet his energon ration that Piston hasn't gotten recharge since the yester-cycle _(yesterday)_ when they realized Hot Rod was missing and Quick-plot was revealed to be a traitor.

Reluctantly Blaster turns his attention back to the huge screen again. Yep, this is going to take quite a long while. He probably isn't going to get this done until the next solar cycle_ (day)_, blast that Soundwave for hiding his messages in such a complex and hard to read code. Blaster makes it a mental note to send the wily Con his own little goodie pack of encrypted junk that will make the creep's processor fry trying to decode it.

The Autobot Communications Officer looks over his other shoulder after another long breem_ (8.3 earth min.)_ has drug by. He is met by the disturbingly expressionless faceplates of Prowl. Blaster blinks. _How long has he been standing back there? Has he just been watching me this whole time?_ The C.O. feels his back metal chill briefly and he hopes not. Calmly Blaster smiles at the newly appointed S.I.C. of the Tactical Office. It does not get returned.

"Hi there," Blaster says awkwardly, a little bothered with the emotionless optics resting on him.

The Praxian's gaze sharpens suddenly and something like embarrassment fills his faceplates for a moment before vanishing so quickly that Blaster might have imagined it. Relief fills the C.O.'s frame as he realizes that Prowl was probably configuring data as he stood there waiting for the results and wasn't just watching him like a turbo-fox watches a glitch-mouse. Prowl's optics narrow and he focuses them slightly before speaking, "Sorry, I got distracted," he genuinely looks at Blaster then, "Did you need something?"

"Recharge, some high-grade, and Soundwave's helm on a platter, think you can manage?" Blaster says with a snort. The Praxian's facial features become somewhat bewildered and he doesn't seem to get the joke so Blaster turns back to the computer in silence.

The tactician says suddenly, "Your first two requests will only hinder your effort. Recharge can come after you finish decoding the video feed, high-grade will just make your systems slow and your work progress poor. As for Soundwave's helm, I'm not entirely sure that I will be able to comply with that illogical demand given that I do not know his current location."

Blaster stares back over his shoulder armor at Prowl who merely looks back at him. A grin crosses the C.O.'s lip plates and he turns back to his work barely able to keep a chuckle suppressed at the tactician's perplexed optics at his smile. _That is one precise mech,_ Blaster thinks to himself with a smirk as he begins typing processor-numbingly again.

The tactical computer suddenly lightens to a lively blue and the video feed pops up paused. Blaster stares, his optics unbelieving, "I got it." He taps a few more keys and the video brightens to signify that it is fully downloaded. "Wake Piston," Blaster tells the Praxian without looking away from the screen.

"He already did," Piston's vocals are groggy as he comes to stand next to the thrilled communications bot. "What is it?"

Blaster shrugs his shoulders, "I don't know, but it's probably not good news considering where it came from. Megatron's liable to be doing this to gloat."

Piston grunts in agreement, "Prowl, comm Sentinel Prime and let him know that Blaster got the video feed decoded." Prowl quickly does just that, his sharp blue optics fading slightly as he speaks to the older Prime over the comm line. To Piston the young doorwinger takes a little longer than necessary to tell Sentinel about the ensuing situation.

Prowl's optics focus once more, "He is coming, as is Optimus Prime and Ultra Magnus, and the other mechs from Sentinel Prime's council."

Right. Piston had forgotten that the other mechs would probably need to be here as well in case the video contained a ransom demand or something of that nature. The older tactician nods in gratitude for the Praxian's foresight. It is even clearer in Piston's processor than before that Prowl will not be his subordinate for long. The H.T. will be surprised if their current ranks aren't reversed within a vorn.

It takes the mechs only a breem_ (8.3 earth min.)_ to fully gather in the Tactical Office for the second time in the past two cycles_ (days)_ and then Sentinel asks the other tactical bots to kindly leave for a short while. They all obey with worried optics. Hardly any of them know of Hot Rod's current predicament, but they all sense something is wrong with their leaders.

Ironhide and Ultra Magnus are conversing quietly between themselves with Sonic-blaster listening nonchalantly with his blue optics distant. Optimus' own faceplating is slightly troubled as he stands next to his creator. Red Alert is staring anxiously at the computer screen that holds the video from Soundwave. None of them pay attention to the tactical bots as they file out of the Office.

As the last of the lower ranked tacticians leave, Sentinel speaks quickly and his vocals sound haggard, "Piston? You have gotten the video code deciphered?"

"Yes, Blaster has. I merely sat back and recharged."

Sentinel nods wearily and Blaster has the feeling that he hasn't recharged since his creation was taken either, "What did you find Blaster?"

"I'm not sure what it is. I figured you would want to be here when we took a look at it," Blaster says. He optics probe the Prime's questioningly if he should play the video feed now. Sentinel merely nods and transfixes his gaze on the screen, his faceplates filling with something like dread.

Blaster taps a few keys quickly and the video starts, capturing the attention of the mechs. It blinks and fritzes before settling into a grainy picture of the floor. This is a direct recording from what someone has seen. _ It must be Soundwave's optic feed. _Blaster leans forward in curiosity and fascination that he is seeing Cybertron from the Decepticon's viewpoint. The recording looks even further down and a pair of black and purple pedes fill the screen. Blaster stares._ What the slag Soundwave!? This had better not be just a video of you doing whatever the frag it is you do! We called Sentinel in for Primus' sake!_ The video lifts upward and points at a damaged wall of a holding cell.

A familiar voice resonates through the video, "Is it working?"

Megatron. Blaster's clenches his servo into a fist and wishes he could box the Decepticon in the gears good and hard. The Autobot C.O.'s attention is captivated even more as the screen shifts to look at the creation of Unicron himself. The screen 'nods' as Soundwave answers his master's question.

"Sentinel Prime, my creator! Optimus, Ultra Magnus, my brothers!" Megatron begins as he is looking at them through the screen and Blaster's energon chills at the malice in the Con's faceplates. "You are probably wondering what I plan to do with my newly acquired pawn." Blaster can hear Ironhide growl behind him at the reference to Hot Rod.

Blaster glances back toward Sentinel and notices a mixture of contorted emotions on the focused Prime's features. From fear for Hot Rod to happiness to see his eldest again, but anger that it is under these horrible circumstances. The Autobot Communications Officer turns back to the screen as Megatron begins speaking again.

"I am sure that you are worried," the fragger touches his chest armor in false sympathy and furrows his optic ridge in fake concern. "I know also that you probably wish to have your beloved pit spawn returned to you. And so, in consideration for my dear father's spark, I will propose a trade."

_There it is._ Blaster bares his denta and fights the snarl that struggles to be emitted from his vocalizer. That slagger thinks he has the right to make a trade, he needs to be torn apart limb from limb and thrown into a smelting pit! No one speaks as they wait for the virtual Megatron to make his demand.

"An ancient relic would be sufficient payment for a whelp, I think. I believe I will relieve you of the burden of the Spark Extractor." There is an uncontained cry of outrage from Red Alert now and the moving picture of Megatron continues, "Sentinel, you, Optimus and Ultra Magnus will be bringing this relic to me in my new, humble abode." The grey mech gestures outward and glares at Soundwave when the Decepticon C.O.'s gaze doesn't follow the direction of his servo quickly enough. As Soundwave finally looks out the direction that Megatron pointed and the screen shows a tattered city under reconstruction, there is a disbelieving intake from Piston.

"Metropolis?" Sonic-blaster's vocals manage to sound both full of rage and disbelief at the same moment as they stare at the screen in anger.

"That is," Megatron is speaking again and everyone's attention snaps back to the computer, "If you will comply with my proposal." His smirk is replaced by a sudden scowl, "Rest assured that if anyone but the three I have demanded shows their faceplates in this city then this youngling…" Soundwave looks the direction Megatron motioned quickly and the picture turns darker. It slowly focuses as Megatron finishes his sentence, "…will be offlined with extreme prejudice."

The pitiful mechling that fills the screen is nothing like the outgoing, bright opticked bot that Blaster remembers as Sentinel's creation. Dried energon stains the prisoner's red, yellow and orange paint scheme. Abusive marks are clawed along his neck cables and chest armor. His optics are dim and unfocused as he stares at the floor, his servos are chained slightly above his hanging helm.

"Brother," Megatron reaches out to the youngling and catches his jaw, forcing him to look up so that the screen fills with his terrified and forlorn optics. "Is there some message you want to give to our creator?"

The youngling's gaze sharpens and he stares up at Soundwave then back to Megatron, "They—" his vocals break and static erupts before he gains control again, "They can—ztsss—see me?" The screen 'nods' once more. Hot Rod looks hopefully toward the screen and his blue optics overflow with tears held back for too long, "Help me." The video feed stops.

Blaster feels Sentinel's presence beside him and is slightly startled when the Prime reaches his servo out carefully and touches the picture of his youngest creation on the screen with his fingertips. Silence follows the end of the video feed and lingers as Sentinel stares, unable to take his optics from Hot Rod's frozen, desperate faceplates.

Optimus breaks the quiet, "Father," the gentle undertone of the younger Prime's vocals makes Blaster feel like he is imposing on a private moment. Sentinel doesn't answer; instead he curls his digits and rubs his knuckle bolts softly over the picture. The stillness is uninterrupted as the older Prime allows his servo to drop back to his side.

"We must get him back," Sentinel says firmly and whirls from the screen. His optics hold calmness and a hidden determination as his gaze lands on Optimus then Ultra Magnus, slowly meeting every mech's stare. A secret desperation to keep his dreaded vision from coming true is concealed on his war-hardened faceplates. He knows without a shadow of a doubt that the only way to stop it is to get Hot Rod back.

"Sentinel Prime," Red Alert begins but the elder Prime doesn't let the H.O.S. voice his concern.

"We must get him back," he repeats more forcefully, "No matter the cost."

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

_Well, Sentinel has finally voiced his decision to rescue Hot Rot (its about slagging time! I was getting tired of you beating around the bush Prime!) I am sorry that he took so long, he is being bashful in his leading. (Turns to Sentinel) Optimus Prime wouldn't have taken so long if he were in charge!_

_Anyway, love it? hate it? think it needs something different in it? Let me know. I will be sitting here without a life awaiting your reviews... Actually I will be doing home work. And babysitting for extra dough. (As a final word: I think I think about Transformers too much. I have begun to call my cousin [whom I babysit] a femme without thinking. I am slowly but surely losing my brain and my ability to think in non-Cybertronian terms.) It probably doesn't help that my mom allows me/ encourages me to call her Mamatron. Yes. I have an awesome mother... XD_


End file.
